


A Lady's Justice

by peggycarterisacat



Series: A Lady's Justice (Regency AU) [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, F/M, Marriage of Convenience, Mutual Pining, Panic Attacks, Past Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Secret Identity, Slow Burn, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-09
Updated: 2018-05-06
Packaged: 2018-10-30 00:36:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 49,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10865403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peggycarterisacat/pseuds/peggycarterisacat
Summary: Sansa, after escaping her betrothal to Joffrey, gains a new perspective on women's rights in Westerosi society and decides to make her mark where she can — under a pen name, of course.Meanwhile,  Willas is determined to track down his elusive new correspondent — Mr. Allyn Stone, author ofA Lady's Justice,the most scandalous novel of the season.





	1. Sansa 1

**Author's Note:**

> I did some — but not exhaustive — research, so please forgive me for anachronisms, especially re: Regency/Victorian customs and fashion. I figure this is Westeros, not actual Earth, so it won’t be a perfect analogue.

At first, she refused to say who had left the blood and the bruises, but Father sat outside her door — a quiet, grim specter — and would not let her leave until she spoke. When she did, a dark storm came over his face, but he said nothing and left abruptly.

In the morning, Jory had orders to remove her from the Keep to the old house the family kept. It had never been often occupied, but even lately it was vacated given Father’s appointment as the Hand and Sansa’s own betrothal which had kept them close to the Royal Family. Father did not return for some days, leaving Sansa stuck indoors with an unruly Arya and little in the way of diversions. Her sister rattled through the house with a will which Sansa had no energy to challenge — instead she took to locking herself in the dark, dusty library and sitting listless, staring at shelves full of the books she used to love.

The world had shown itself to be an ugly place, and the falseness of those stories echoed in her empty heart. She ran pale fingers along their spines, flipped through fragile pages full of lies. It would be so easy to rip those pages from their bindings, throw them to the ground, to the fire — but she wasn’t _him_. She didn’t destroy.

Still, one afternoon Jory found her sitting amongst the wreckage — the extent of it that she could stomach, anyway. Tall stacks of her old books teetered on the floor, and their shelves now lay empty.

“I don’t want them anymore,” was all she could say, and he was good enough to let her cry on his shoulder before taking them away.

* * *

Her bruises had faded from purple to green to a sickly mottled yellow before Father arrived for them in the middle of the night. He checked that all the curtains were drawn shut before he let them begin to pack by dim candle-light — quickly. Sansa faintly wondered what had happened to the servants — there was only Jory now, and that may have been the case for a long time. She couldn’t quite remember seeing another face for as long as they had been in this house. There had been no one to help her dress, she recalled — Arya didn’t count as help — and she had padded around in nightgowns and loose morning dresses all day long. There had been no visitors.

They rushed out to the waiting carriage, which clattered down the empty streets to the Mud Gate, where they rushed out to the docks. Arya, as always, was full of questions, to which Father gave terse answers.

Once they were belowdecks on the ship that would carry them north, Sansa asked, “When will we come back?” She was supposed to marry the Prince, she remembered, as her fingers traced the still-tender bruises she had hidden under her shawl.

Father embraced her, and his breathing had gone rough. “Never,” he said. “Never again.” The idea brought her no pleasure, even when she closed her eyes and remembered cruel laughter and the strike of fists.

Moments passed and she noticed that Father hadn’t let her go, and her hair was wet.

* * *

The carriage trundled up to Winterfell, and even the sight of home couldn’t cheer her. She couldn’t help but compare everything to King’s Landing — their house looked bleak and uninviting, the grounds wild and deserted, her old haunts dull and lifeless.

Even seeing her brothers brought her little in the way of joy — they had too many questions and she had not enough answers.

Life took on a new routine: she sat demurely through her lessons, gave acceptable responses when spoken to, ate enough at meals to stop Mother’s fussing, and drifted through the halls like a ghost. Words became her solace, pouring out from the tip of her pen, words she collected and hid in a locked box under her bed. Her words told the truth, but it was a truth no one else could ever hear. _He_ was still out there. _His family_ wouldn’t take kindly to her slander.

When Robb returned from school, bringing back a new romance novel to tempt her with, she thanked him, but then later Father caught her flinging it across her room.

“What’s this now?” he asked, his voice gentle in a way it hadn’t been since she was a little girl.

“It’s lies. Nothing but lies,” she said. Tears leaked from her eyes and tracked down her cheeks without her permission.

Father picked up the book from where it had fallen open, traced fingers over the embossed title on its spine, and snapped it shut. He looked at her, considering. “Then let me find you something that isn’t lies.”

He started by giving her histories — the Rhoynish exodus, the Targaryen conquest, the Dornish wars, biographies of every King and Lord Commander, peerages of all the major Houses — and after she tore through those, furnished her with tomes on philosophy and politics. Soon she could stomach reading novels again, though not romances. She didn’t think she would ever have the heart for romance again.

Smiles returned to her face slowly, and something inside her began to mend.

After Father died, she suspected — the Lannisters, again? She opened her box and looked at the pages packed inside. She should not hide it, what she knew — how dangerous they were. Perhaps some small lies couldn’t hurt. It could hold lies in the details and yet still, on the whole, carry the truth.

She added adjustments here and there: a lady trapped in marriage; a husband privately cruel but publicly respected; a hero not dashing and handsome, but fierce, coarse, and brave; revenge, murder, and escape; an ending not happy, but satisfying. Just.

The kind of hero she dreamed of that had never come; the kind of justice _he_ deserved, but she would never see.

The story of a lady who plotted to murder to escape her lord husband, then disappeared into the night with her lover.

A year later, it was published and society was outraged, yet strangely fascinated. It was condemned in reviews and papers, but whispered about over tea in ladies’ salons. Quite the divisive book — _A Lady's Justice_ , by Mr. Allyn Stone.


	2. Sansa 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the comments/kudos/subscriptions on the first chapter -- every one of you totally made my day. (and sorry for not replying to individual comments, I am a shy awkward person.)
> 
> If my description of how the government works is confusing, I’ve included a summary in the end notes. I couldn’t fit all of the exposition into this chapter without making it really awkward, but it will be expanded on in future chapters, I promise.

The house was brighter than Sansa remembered. Three years ago, it had been cavernous and lonely, a pit for her to wallow in her fear and grief. But then, three years ago she had been fifteen, hopelessly naive, and foolishly in love with the Prince — now the King. She closed her eyes, exhaled, and steeled herself against those memories. It would do no good to dwell.

“Well?” Robb asked, startling her.

They were still standing in the foyer, and she saw the concern in his eyes when he looked at her. Something hardened in her heart, and she felt the old mask falling into place again.

“You’ve never been here, have you?” she remembered. He wouldn’t have lived here while he was at school, and he hadn’t left the North since Father died.

“Come _on_ ,” Arya said, bounding down the stairs. “We’ll show you.” She grabbed Robb’s arm, pulling him along, and Sansa followed, laughing.

Their house wasn’t much like the houses — mansions — of the other old families who kept permanent homes in town. It was a large, imposing thing situated on the northern side of the city near the Old Gate, a respectable enough neighborhood, if not a fashionable one. But they were Starks, and _fashionable_ wasn’t their main consideration in a house; even Winterfell would be considered plain by Southern standards. This house — though slightly more decorated, owing to the standards of town — had been in the family for generations, since the days of the Conquest, and didn’t look as if it had been updated since.

“I asked around the neighborhood, and they think it’s _haunted_ ,” Arya said gleefully. “A few years ago, they would see lights moving around in the windows at night sometimes, but never saw anyone enter or leave.”

Their view of the grounds didn’t dissuade thoughts of hauntedness; in front, bordered by a rusting iron-spiked fence, was a small godswood, no doubt intended, at one point, to provide a picturesque walk up to the house. Almost like a garden, albeit a wilder sort. But years of neglect had let it run very wild indeed — overtaking the crumbling statues of giant, snarling direwolves that flanked the front doors.

They had a lot of work cut out for them, Sansa reflected.

First, they explored the labyrinthine ground floor — Sansa cringed at the furnishings in the drawing room; everything was sturdy, well-made, and obviously cared for in their absence, but decades outdated.

“Perhaps I’ll make some new cushions,” she said blithely, and Robb snickered at her.

The dining room was a little better — sturdy, classic pieces there — and there were a couple of little empty rooms she could use as a morning room or parlor, assuming she could find furniture for that purpose. Quietly, Sansa resolved to filch the ugliest pieces from all over the house to keep there and commission new pieces to be made in their place; that could be acceptable, assuming they wouldn’t be expected to entertain in those small rooms.

They found the long, narrow library, and Sansa flinched when she saw the empty shelves — she had quite forgotten her outburst three years prior. It was only a few shelves that were bare, she considered. If she rearranged the rest it wouldn’t look so sparse, but it would still be prudent to purchase more to fill in the gaps.

Barred doors led to a huge ballroom, fallen into disrepair. “Who do you think last had a ball here?” she wondered aloud. The last Stark who had officially taken residence here was their grandfather, but she hadn’t thought the purpose of his time in town was to entertain.

Upstairs wasn’t any better than down, but it was tolerable as Sansa didn’t expect to be entertaining guests in her bedroom. She sat in a hard chair at her dressing table and resolved to embroider a new set of cushions for the house. This could be livable, but they weren’t _savages_.

Passing back through her room, she set aside a couple of cases from where her maid was beginning to unpack — the staff at this house was new, all of them, and she would have to learn names — and then knocked at Robb’s door.

“I was going to take Arya on some errands,” she explained. “I have to leave a card for Margaery Tyrell, and I also wanted to look at books, and Arya and I both need to order new gowns.”

“What?” Arya’s head poked down from the landing a floor up.

“You’re sixteen,” Sansa said tiredly, as they rehashed the same argument for the dozenth time. “It’s time for you to come out into society.”

“I don’t want to be _out_ ,” Arya complained. “Boys are stupid.”

“As your brother, that’s exactly what I want to hear,” Robb teased, “but you’re growing up, and this is part of it.” As Arya launched into the familiar pattern of complaints about proper society, he said in an undertone to Sansa, “Why don’t you rest today? We’ve only just arrived. I doubt even Margaery Tyrell will take offense if you don’t call the very day you arrive in town.”

Sansa shook her head. Margaery Tyrell was the reason she had come back to the capitol; one didn’t refuse a formal invitation from the future Queen. “You don’t understand how things work here,” she told him.

* * *

Arya scowled when Sansa came to collect her. “We’ll get to drive past the mansions on the waterfront,” Sansa promised, but that had only darkened her sister’s expression.

“Why do I want to see a bunch of stupid rich people’s houses?” she grumbled as Sansa marched her out into the waiting carriage.

They went around Rhaenys’s Hill to the bay, skirting the Street of Silk and avoiding Flea Bottom entirely. Arya forgot herself long enough to stare at those sights through new eyes, but Sansa restrained herself so as not to look so provincial. It had been several years, but she had seen all of this before.

Instead, she wondered if Willas Tyrell was in town yet. She knew he held his father’s seat on the Large Council, but there were still a few days before the Session started. Mr. Tyrell had been writing to her — to Mr. Stone — for almost a year, now. After the book had been published, Mr. Stone had started writing articles. In the wake of a particularly controversial article on divorce law, Mr. Tyrell’s first letter had come through along with the regular load of vitriol. To this day, Sansa thanked the gods that she had opened it instead of throwing it away with the rest.

Mr. Tyrell was different from most men. He had written asking for Mr. Stone’s thoughts about women’s inclusion in the legislature, so as to give better voice to their issues; this had prompted Sansa to do more research on the topic and write a series of articles to be published alongside the next Session of the Large Council. By chance, it was perfectly timed with the major controversy of that Session, and it had taken only a moment’s work to tailor the remaining articles to Miss Tarth’s circumstances.

Allyn Stone had emerged from the fiasco as a major name in that political sphere; Lord Baelish had promoted her, giving her a weekly column in one of his major papers. Mr. Tyrell had written again, most congratulatory, and, impulsively, Sansa had written back, thanking him for his part in directing her attention to the issue and including a Wintertown address so that they might continue correspondence directly.

She felt that she’d gotten to know him quite well, since then.

Invariably, Mr. Tyrell’s letters were intelligent and full of insight — and, more than that, understanding and compassion. She could tell when she raised a point he had not considered, and he didn’t grow defensive as many would. She was both excited and terrified that she might have the opportunity to meet him — would he live up to the image she’d constructed in her mind, or would he disappoint her entirely?

Sansa didn’t know when the vision in her head of the perfect man stopped being the golden prince she wished Joffrey had been. It had turned into a man more quiet and compassionate, intelligent and well-spoken, sometimes inclined towards rambling, but always willing to listen.

After she’d left her card at the grand Tyrell mansion, which had a splendid view of Blackwater Bay, Sansa wondered if there was anyone else she should leave a card for. None of their former acquaintances had bothered to keep up the relationship after they’d left King’s Landing suddenly all those years ago. With spite, Sansa thought the upkeep of all those friendships couldn’t fall on her shoulders entirely, and if they were offended, so be it.

Only family, she decided, and left a card for Uncle Edmure — a fashionable address a block off of the Street of Sisters. Aunt Lysa had retired to the Eyrie since the death of her husband, Sansa remembered, and Great-Uncle Brynden would be with her.

The Street of Steel had been the place to buy armor and swords in centuries past, but as time went on and the need was not so great, armorer’s shops began to be replaced by fashionable dressmakers and milliners. There were still some fine blacksmiths near the top of Visenya’s hill, making swords for gentlemen who fenced or who wished to give themselves a dangerous edge by carrying them, but _ladies_ never ventured that way except to visit the Sept.

At the dressmaker’s, bolts of silks and satins covered the walls, and Sansa looked longingly at the bright colors. It had been almost two years since Father died, and though they were no longer required to wear black, Sansa still didn’t feel right leaving her mourning clothes behind. Not when she might have been the one who caused it…

Arya seemed to have similar feelings; when pressed to pick out fabrics, she invariably chose shades of grey, and Sansa had little energy or inclination to complain.

“Two walking dresses and an evening gown, cut to the same length,” Sansa decided. Arya was careless enough to ruin anything longer, dragging the hems through mud and brambles— “And Arya, at least pick a lavender or something with a bit of color.”

Scowling, Arya pointed at a bolt of lavender muslin.

“Thank you,” Sansa said, determined not to react to the scowl.

For herself, Sansa picked out a variety of soft pastels — a step outside of mourning, but still not too ostentatious — but looked longingly at a bright cobalt blue that would perfectly complement her eyes.

As they left for the bookstore, Sansa grabbed ahold of Arya’s hand. “Thank you,” she said again, “for not making that too difficult.”

“I’m not a child anymore,” Arya protested, cross, and yanked her hand away.

The biggest bookstore in town — several stories tall, and crammed to bursting with shelves that held books of every genre imaginable — was on the Central Square. They parted ways when they entered — Arya scampering off upstairs, while Sansa wound her way through to where newer, more political books were kept, intent on finding Brienne Tarth’s latest.

Sansa had taken a special interest in Miss Tarth’s career, seeing as it had launched her own. Brienne Tarth was an oddity in King’s Landing — the only woman to date who had served on the Large Council in any capacity. Last year, the succession on Tarth became a matter of national interest when Lord Selwyn Tarth ceded his seat on the Large Council to his only heir, and — by a combination of the Council’s ignorance of the island’s ruling family and the lady’s preference for male clothing — no one realized that “Mr. Tarth” was a woman until she had already attended several gatherings of the Large Council.

Her claim to the seat was swiftly returned to her father, who just as quickly named her his absentee delegate. Eventually, a compromise was reached where she was allowed to participate in Council sessions — minus the right to cast her own votes. Despite being a frequent speaker on the Council floor, she lately had begun to spread her ideas further — publishing numerous articles and, now, a book.

When Sansa found it — _On the Economic Independence of Women_ — she pulled one down from the shelf and flipped the cover open, reveling in the scent of leather, ink, and freshly-cut paper. She skimmed through the table of contents, smiling at what she found there — chapters discussing women’s contributions to the textile industry, their lack of diverse opportunities and exclusion from vast swathes of the workforce, and their forced reliance upon a husband or male relatives. Brienne Tarth’s writings always inspired a good deal of thought, and Sansa couldn’t wait to begin reading it this evening.

She closed the cover again, turned without looking, and almost barreled directly into a man standing there. “Pardon me,” she squeaked, stopping short so as not to hit him — her face heated with embarrassment at almost running the man down, then flushed even more when she looked up and saw that he was very handsome. That didn’t matter — it _shouldn’t_ matter — because she’d learned long ago that beauty wasn’t an indicator of goodness.

“Not at all!” he exclaimed. “You’ve caught me watching you, I’m afraid, but my excuse will be that I’ve never before seen anyone look so happily at Brienne Tarth’s work.”

“You disagree with her, then?” Sansa asked, frowning up at him. He was taller than her, with wavy brown hair and dimples where he was smiling. It was so unfair, she thought.

“No, I quite agree with her. It’s only that her writing is so grim.”

He immediately grew handsomer in her eyes, and she smiled shyly up at him. “It’s fitting, then, because the subject matter is itself grim.”

“That is true,” he said, smiling back at her. He opened his mouth to say something else, but—

“I’m ready,” Arya said, plopping a volume about Braavosi swordplay into Sansa’s arms.

“Arya!” Sansa gasped at her rudeness, but the man only laughed. His was a kind laugh — not the cutting laughter Sansa had grown used to in her time at court — and it made his eyes crinkle, so that Sansa couldn’t help but let her own smile grow wider.

“I’m the eldest of four, myself,” was all he needed to say as explanation. “I’ll let you go then, Miss, and apologize for taking up so much of your time.”

“Not at all,” she tried to get out, but he was already limping away. His cane was not just an accessory, she realized — he was putting a fair amount of his weight on it.

Sansa sifted through the books Arya had given her. “ _A Lady's Justice?_ ” she asked, holding up the novel that had been tucked under the hefty tome on swordplay.

“It’s been the talk of the town, and I thought you _cared_ about what all those people think. We’ll look stupid if we can’t at least make passing conversation,” she insisted.

Sansa narrowed her eyes, knowing Arya was more interested in shocking people rather than any care for their reputations, but she agreed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How the government works: 
> 
> The Small Council is composed of the Lords Paramount of each region, plus other members appointed by the King. Their role is similar to canon, advising and working closely with the King. The King can make whatever declarations he wants — most kings use this power in moderation, but Joffrey is Joffrey. 
> 
> The Large Council is the legislature. Anyone with the title of Lord can either attend sessions or appoint a delegate to attend in his place (this option is especially popular with Lords from remote areas, or who want to focus their efforts on local politics, or who want to give an heir experience). These delegates have as much autonomy as their lord gives them — some take on the position in full, and some are limited to casting their lord’s written votes. 
> 
> Women are NOT allowed on either of the Councils — not even women from Dorne, who may rule locally in their own right. They must send a male family member if they wish to participate on the Council.


	3. Willas 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again, everyone :)

The first Council meeting of the year started out strong with Miss Tarth's usual hecklers forever trying to trip her up as she spoke, but it didn't go to hell entirely until some small lord from the Stormlands added his voice to the fray. Then he had turned to face the room and shouted, “Why are we listening to her? Hasn’t one of you fucked her already? I thought you’d be able to _shut her up_.”

There was a brief moment of silent disbelief before the room exploded in shouts and chatter. Miss Tarth stood at the bottom of it all, looking painfully lost. Willas could hardly sort through the many clamoring voices, but started to put together what had happened since last year’s Session had concluded — wagers over her maidenhead; love letters sent, gifts given, and overtures made. By the reddening of Miss Tarth’s face, he saw there was truth to what they were saying — and that she hadn’t realized the whole of it until now.

“Enough!” That was Lord Tarly’s voice, which Willas suspected could cut through steel if it were so inclined. “It was a cruel wager, to be sure, and nothing of the sort will happen again.” He looked around the room, and the men settled back into place. “That being said, Miss Tarth, it’s time this farce was done. The Council chambers are no place for a lady. You’ve sat among us, you’ve proven whatever it was you set out to prove; now if you have any regard for your father or your House, you will put on proper clothing, return home, and take whatever husband will have you after this embarrassment.”

“Thank you for the advice, my lord, but this was no fault of mine. I did nothing to encourage it,” she said. The redness of her face undermined her attempt at stoicism.

“Your very presence here encouraged it,” Lord Tarly scoffed, casting her a derisive look. “These are all honorable men; what else could entice them to act so?”

“This is not her fault,” Oberyn said, standing up. Though his voice was quieter, his presence was no less commanding than Lord Tarly's. “To trick a lady in such a way is no better than coercion — in Dorne, at least, we understand that — and for what? To discredit her voice on this floor? You and I must have very different understandings of honor.” 

“It’s unnatural. She doesn’t belong,” Lord Tarly said.

Miss Tarth’s jaw clenched, and the papers in her hands crumpled within her grip. “I am the heir to Tarth. I have the right to be here, in this chamber, same as any of you,” she said, and she went back up to take her seat.

Willas leaned on his cane to shuffle out of his chair and stand — not a graceful motion. “She has a place here,” he repeated, looking around at all the faces. They did not look as if they would heed him, but Miss Tarth shouldn’t be made to feel as if she stood alone. “Who was involved in this wager?” he asked the room.

There was a ripple of guilty movement among the Stormlands’ and the Reach’s sections of seats. Willas closed his eyes and sighed. “Lord Baratheon, deal with your lords, and I’ll deal with mine.”

Or, to be more accurate, Willas would bring the matter up with Father, who would likely find it amusing and harmless, and nothing at all would happen.

The meeting did not last long after; the entire affair had derailed any semblance of order the Council had. Willas rushed as much as his pained leg would let him, trying to catch up to Miss Tarth as she strode away, her head held stiffly high.

“Miss Tarth!” he called out, and she stopped.

“Were you betting along with the rest of them?” she asked, furious. “Was that the reason for all the letters — the compliments and invitations?”

“No,” Willas protested. “I had no idea this was happening— I meant it all genuinely; I admire your work— It’s appalling, how they’ve treated you—”

“Men have always treated me like this,” Miss Tarth said. Her face was stony with resignation.

“What he means to say is that we support you.” Oberyn was suddenly there with them, resting a hand at Willas’s back. “There are more who support you than you think.”

She smiled tightly and departed, not looking reassured. 

“Are there more who support her?” Willas asked quietly.

“It’s been a long time since we’ve had a chance to talk, my friend,” Oberyn said. Willas knew him well enough to tell that his smile was strained. “Why don’t you come over tomorrow, stay for dinner, and we can talk then?”

* * *

_…_ _To your other inquiry: I will be in town for some time before and during the Royal Wedding, though only to meet with my publisher, and I expect much of my time will be taken up by business. I do not expect I shall partake in any of the festivities; I am sorry to say it, as I know your family will soon be joined with theirs, but the lives of the Royal Family have never much held my interest. My hope is that I will be back on the road North as soon as my business is concluded. I have never enjoyed time spent in King’s Landing._

_Please understand I do not mean to slight you with my excuses; I do greatly enjoy our correspondence. It is only that I do not have your station in life and I fear that a public association with me will only lower you in their eyes, especially at a time when your family will be under much scrutiny._

_While I am in town you may direct your letters to my publisher’s address on the Street of Silk (as I’m sure you know, Lord Baelish has a hand in many different industries). He will ensure that I receive them._

_Yours,_  
_A. Stone_

 

The letter had arrived in the morning, and Willas read it over breakfast. He then re-read the last couple of paragraphs several times more over the course of the morning, before folding it back up. _I do not mean to slight you with my excuses…_ Intentionally or not, Willas felt slighted. Thanks to Miss Tarth, Willas was becoming used to having his invitations denied, but he could understand her caution, especially after yesterday.

The excuse about not wanting to damage _Willas’s_ reputation was flimsy. Willas was peeved — to have a proper address withheld and to be asked to direct his letters to an intermediary? Lord Baelish, of all people? Willas hadn’t sent a letter to the publisher’s office in almost a year — he had thought they were far beyond that inefficient ferrying of paper. What cause did Mr. Stone have for wariness?

A knock sounded at the library door, and Margaery hovered at the threshold, looking elegantly relaxed in a loose gown — pale golden silk with an overlay of Myrish lace. It was afternoon already.

“Will you be joining us for tea today, brother?” she asked.

“No,” Willas said brusquely, shoving Mr. Stone’s letter into a drawer in his writing desk. He took a calming breath, looked up, and amended: “I haven’t had a chance to properly visit Oberyn since I’ve arrived in town — we do have some business to discuss, which should take us into the evening.”

“Good,” Margaery smiled guilelessly, “Miss Stark is coming to tea and I had hoped to have her all to myself.”

Mentally Willas ran through all of their family members and friends who could have been present this afternoon. “It’s fortunate then, that we are all called away,” he said. Her expression didn’t waver, but he hadn’t expected it to. “Though I wonder why Miss Stark has captured your interest?”

“I’m sure you know — the Starks are a very interesting family, and it’s been years since any of them have been to town. No one will come right out and say it, but you must have heard the rumors. None of the family attended the coronation, and then with so few details of the late Lord Stark’s fall from favor and his death… People are curious, and there is a particular interest in Miss Stark. If I am the first to make her acquaintance, I get considerable influence over her and her story.”

Willas laughed and shook his head. “You’re to be Queen, and you mean to say you’ll need more influence than that?”

“I can’t let myself become complacent,” she said, her sweet smile tipping into a smirk for half a second.

“Well, I should be on my way,” Willas said, standing. “It would be rude to leave as soon as she arrives, and if you want to make her acquaintance alone…”

“Oh, you will be missed,” Margaery teased, moving forward to embrace him. “Perhaps next time, if I don’t decide to keep her all to myself.”

Despite his best intentions, a young lady was waiting and being announced as Miss Stark as he passed through the foyer. Willas went to give her a short bow — as much as his leg would allow him — and though she looked rather paler than he remembered, he immediately recognized her — she was beautiful, and her hair an unmistakable shade of auburn. It was the girl from the bookstore.

Her eyes briefly lit with confusion when she saw him, but she quickly recovered and curtsied elegantly. “I had not thought to see you again… Mr. Tyrell?”

Oh, he had never given her his name. “Willas Tyrell,” he introduced himself quickly. She bit her lip and a hint of color returned to her face— “Though I would like to stay, I have a prior engagement to keep. I do know my sister is greatly looking forward to meeting you.”

For some reason that made her blanch again. “I have had a great interest in meeting her, as well.”

They paused for a moment, and Willas bowed again. “If you’ll excuse me,” he murmured, and she curtsied again before being shown into Margaery’s sitting room.

Willas put on his hat as he went outside and climbed into the waiting carriage. That had been an odd encounter — he wondered why Miss Stark had seemed so nervous and stilted, so unlike the charming young lady he’d spoken to in the bookstore. It must be awkward to meet the current fiancee of one’s former betrothed, he reflected, and put the incident from his mind.

Instead the carriage ride was occupied by thoughts of Mr. Stone and his frankly rude letter. Willas was determined not to let it color his opinion of the man; they had a perfectly amicable correspondence up until this point, and Willas had been impressed by his letters and articles. The book, he had to admit, was the first thing that caught his attention — he had thought it crass, manufactured to shock and entertain rather than to make any sort of statement. But then the articles started, and Willas had been forced to consider it as part of the whole.

The man unequivocally hated violence against women and the trappings of marriage. It was not the sort of thing that many men spoke about — Willas found it most fascinating and tried his best to pick the man’s brain, for all the good it did him. Mr. Stone never wrote much of personal matters, though the thought had never struck him as strongly as it did now.

Until now, Willas had assumed Mr. Stone was using the bastard name as a pseudonym, as had become custom for men seeking to hide their identities; a man publishing such radical ideas as Mr. Stone did might seek to preserve his reputation, especially if he was of a prominent family. Some things about his letters hinted at that—

His letters were invariably written on fine paper and with an elegant hand, sometimes with a faint scent to them — something both citrusy and floral — as if his paper had been stored with his wife’s stationery. His surname was of the Vale yet his letters were addressed from Wintertown, which, from the name, sounded as if it was in the North. Even Mr. Stone’s novel and interests hinted that he was not truly a bastard. Willas had assumed that the novel’s subject matter — a high-born lady trapped in a horribly abusive marriage to a lord whose place in society protected him from scrutiny — was the result of a childhood raised with a battered mother, but if this wasn’t the case and the man truly was a bastard… Perhaps his belief that his acquaintance would lower Willas’s name in the eyes of society was coming from a place of true concern.

He would attempt to rectify this in his next letter.

* * *

 “ _Are_ there others who support Miss Tarth?” Willas asked again, when they were seated in the spacious library at the Martells’.

“There are those who support her _agenda_ ,” Oberyn said. He reclined in his chair, placing his hands behind his head. “They are not so sure about supporting Miss Tarth, specifically. There are those in Dorne who have been working towards this goal, but quietly, and they are undecided whether to rally behind a different woman, or to find ways to make Miss Tarth more palatable. She’s an oddity, and she does not seek to align herself with others. This recent business will make her even more difficult to support.”

“She has a great mind,” Willas protested.

“Politics isn’t just about great minds. She has no allies, and by the standards of these six kingdoms her reputation is close to ruin. If she can’t play those games as well, she will lose it all,” Oberyn said.

He was right, little as Willas liked to admit it. Miss Tarth struck him as very forthright; not the type of person who would dissemble in order to preserve her reputation or fake smiles in order to maintain superficial friendships. But she would need both of those things, and quickly, to ride out the waves set in motion yesterday.

“She fences, I have heard,” he thought aloud. “She must find it impossible to find space or partners to practice. If you were to—”

Oberyn laughed. “She would think I was trying to kill her. In any case, I don’t think my reputation is one that will lift hers, under present circumstances. I'm afraid she needs someone more wholesome for this task.”

Right. Oberyn's reputation for promiscuity would be no help here, and the other things that lay deeper... No one had ever been able to prove that Lord Yronwood had been poisoned, or that Oberyn was the one who had done it, but the taint of that scandal still lingered.

Willas nodded. He could convince Garlan to take her fencing easily; the introduction would be the only difficult part of it. “I’ll get Margaery to invite her to tea.” He would have to owe Margaery a favor; she didn’t like to associate herself with anything that might imply greater intelligence or ambition than was expected of her, but he also didn’t think that even Miss Tarth would turn down an invitation from the future Queen. 

And maybe, if he could just wrangle an introduction to Mr. Stone, the two of them might be able to help each other. He knew Miss Tarth's career was of particular interest to Mr. Stone and suspected that once the word got around, there would be several new articles written in her defense. 

It would be a start.

Miss Sand joined them for dinner and after, they sipped sweet Dornish strongwine and Willas’s mind kept wandering back to Mr. Stone, who still vexed him. To send letters to Petyr Baelish— Perhaps Willas should _talk_ to Baelish—

“…you seem distracted, my friend,” Oberyn said, skimming fingers across Willas’s cheek.

Willas jumped. He knew Oberyn didn’t mean anything by it — at least, he _thought_ Oberyn didn’t mean anything by it — but he suspected he would never truly get used to the Dornishman’s idle flirtations.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized quickly. “It is no excuse, but I’ve been distracted by an acquaintance who is proving to be most frustrating.”

“A young lady, perhaps?” Oberyn asked, exchanging a look with Miss Sand. 

“No, nothing like that,” Willas said, confused at the turn of subject. In any case, he doubted there would ever be a young lady for him, on account of his leg. He could not count the number of times ladies had looked upon him with pity or disgust, and it was next to impossible for him to get the luxury of a private conversation with a young lady — he could not dance or take long walks together.

In some ways, the popularity of Mr. Stone’s novel gave him a small measure of hope. The hero was a man highly disfigured by facial scars, in contrast to the lady’s dashingly handsome husband, and he sometimes heard passing snippets of young ladies’ conversations of how desirable the fictional Sandor Clegane was.

“A young man, then?” Miss Sand asked, impishly.

“A man, though I’m not sure how young; he is refusing to meet me in person,” Willas answered, distracted. “Oh no, not like that,” he exclaimed, distressed, upon seeing Oberyn’s mischievous grin.

“Such a thing is not so scandalous in Dorne,” was all Oberyn said. He gently — accidentally? — rested his knee against Willas’s.

Willas felt his face heat and quickly changed the subject.


	4. Sansa 3

Sansa returned home shaking after tea with Miss Tyrell. The entire affair had been most unsettling. Miss Tyrell — Margaery, she had insisted she call her Margaery — had been perfectly polite, but Sansa had spent the entire visit waiting for her face to twist and her claws to come out.

Underlying all of Margaery’s polite comments and observations was _something_ — Sansa didn’t quite know what, but she knew Margaery Tyrell wasn’t all that she seemed. Inquiries lurked beneath each of her words, needling at things Sansa would rather let lie buried — her history in King’s Landing, the nature of her flight three years ago, her relationship with the Royal Family.

Sansa had tried to give the vaguest, most neutral answers possible, but the shaking of her hands on the teacup gave her away. To her credit, Margaery had noticed and apologized and changed the subject, but she _knew_. She knew now that Sansa was hiding something. How long would it be before she found the truth?

For all that tea was unsettling, Sansa still had no idea what Margaery’s motives could be. Was she genuine? Had she seen through Joffrey’s admittedly thin veneer of civility? Was she afraid for herself?

Or had she been taken into the fold? Was she one of the Queen’s spies? Was she waiting for Sansa to slip up and criticize the Royal Family, so as to report back to them and awaken their wrath?

As she took her leave, a fit of compassion struck Sansa’s heart, but she didn’t allow it to overwhelm her. If Margaery was another innocent about to be thrown to the lions, she still had time. There were another couple of months until the Royal Wedding. She would need to decide soon, but that would mean some time to and watch and decide for herself if Margaery was to be trusted.

But Sansa wasn’t sure if she knew how to trust anymore.

And then there was Mr. Tyrell. Sansa had been eager to meet him — curious to see if his actions would live up to his words, if he would behave differently when he _knew_ he was speaking to a young lady than he did when he _thought_ he was writing to a man. It would necessitate some dishonesty on her part — observing him, while he was unaware of her attention.

The man he had been in the bookstore gave her hope — it had been a fleeting interaction, but there was a lot she had learned. He was a member of the Council who truly respected Miss Tarth, who agreed with her, who wanted her to have a voice. He had not looked down on Sansa for her interest in an area so traditionally a man’s realm. He had taken her slight disagreement with good humor.

Ice filled her lungs. How much had he learned about her in the same few moments? He knew that she admired Miss Tarth. He could assume that she supported equality in the legislature. Could he extrapolate from that onto other subjects?

He was a Tyrell. He was soon to be joined to the Royal Family. Sansa survived in King’s Landing by being polite, but lack-witted and dull — to invite attention was to invite pain.

She would remain his correspondent, Mr. Stone, but she could not take the risk of catching the Lannisters’ attention again — a jolt of pain lanced through her body at the memory, of Kingsguards’ white uniforms and of the strangeness of Father’s death. A feeling rose in her chest that might be regret, disappointment — but she forced it to dissipate. She had the opportunity to be seen and heard for herself, to not hide behind the facade of a man, but it was too dangerous.

There was so much she knew of him, admired of him, that she would have to forget in order to be in his presence. On a superficial level, he was everything she wanted — kind, understanding, accepting, respectful, slow to anger, quick to listen, and distractingly handsome — but, as with everyone and especially with the Tyrells, she did not know what could be lurking beneath the surface.

If Margaery was reporting back to the Queen, she would know everything Mr. Tyrell knew.

And so Sansa resolved to bore Mr. Tyrell to death — handsome, kind-eyed Mr. Tyrell with his dimpled smiles.

* * *

Sansa listened for the creaking of footsteps to quiet, and slipped out of her room, barefoot, stepping softly. Once she was satisfied that everyone — all the staff — were in their rooms and all the lights were out, she returned back to her rooms and pulled the locked box out from under her bed.

Lord Baelish’s office was on the Street of Silk, a district in which any respectable woman would not be caught dead, and so Sansa had planned ahead, accumulating a mismatched set of pilfered men’s clothing over the months leading up to their journey south.

Father’s long greatcoat, which Mother had not the heart to either look upon or discard; a waistcoat and jacket similarly taken from Father’s old clothing, which she had altered to fit more closely to her frame; a simple shirt of her own making; Robb’s least favorite pair of pantaloons, snatched from the mending pile; a cravat ostensibly purchased for Robb at the Wintertown market; a battered hat rescued from the roadside on a windy day; and a pair of boots Bran had long outgrown, with rags stuffed down into the toes so her feet wouldn’t slide around inside. She clumsily laced herself into an old, comically small, set of stays, hoping it would flatten out her chest enough to not be of notice. After studying herself in the mirror, she determined it would be acceptable, so long as Father’s greatcoat masked the remainders of her curves. To that end, she padded out the coat’s broad shoulders with rags, hoping it wouldn’t look too unnatural on her slender frame.

The loose coat did indeed disguise her, and, after braiding and pinning her hair on top of her head to be covered by the hat, she grabbed a pair of gloves, turned up her collar, and slipped out the back door. Narrow alleyways led her to emerge on a main road far away from the Stark house, and from there it was a short walk to the Street of Silk.

“I have an appointment with Lord Baelish,” she told the madam at the front door to Baelish’s brothel. She tried to pitch her voice into a lower octave, and as a result her words sounded strained.

I’ll let him know, Mr…?”

“Stone,” Sansa answered. The woman nodded and disappeared momentarily. When she returned, she gestured for Sansa to follow her down a long hallway. Moans came from behind the many closed doors, and Sansa felt a mortified blush rising to her cheeks.

Once the door to the office was closed, she removed her hat and turned down her collar, aware that she must be looking quite flustered.

“Not the sort of company you’re used to keeping, I presume,” Lord Baelish drawled, sounding amused.

“No, not at all.” She sat and, feeling bold, accepted the glass of brandy he offered. It burned on the way down; she pulled a face but managed not to cough.

Lord Baelish smirked but did not comment. “I do so enjoy your company, Miss Stark, but to what do I owe the pleasure tonight?”

His choice of words made her blush again, and she took another sip of brandy to hide it. “This week’s article,” she said, passing an envelope from her coat pocket. “A review of _The Winter Rose_.”

Her face must have betrayed her feelings, because Lord Baelish smiled that sly smile. “I thought you would have a strong opinion about that one,” he said.

It was a book attempting to redeem dead Rhaegar Targaryen by casting the blame on her Aunt Lyanna for her own kidnap, rape, and eventual death. Seducing the Crown Prince… Ridiculous. She was fifteen when she was taken.

Sansa didn’t want to talk about it, so she moved along. “And I recently picked up Miss Tarth’s new book — would you be interested in a review once I’ve finished?”

“Oh yes, your articles about Miss Tarth always inspire so much controversy, which is exactly what I like to see. No need to rush it for next week, though — I think you might find another topic to write about, if you haven’t already.”

“What do you mean?” Sansa asked.

“I’m sure you’ll hear soon enough.” Lord Baelish’s smile seemed sinister in the dim light.

Sansa bit her lip. “Then — I was wondering — have there been any letters for me?”

“A good many — after your last few articles, I’m not surprised.” He was referring to her latest article on divorce and the Faith, which she knew was likely to be inflammatory — anything regarding the Faith was. She accepted the sheaf of letters he handed over the table. “You have enjoyed your time in town so far, I trust?” he asked.

She nodded, sorting through the letters. The vitriolic ones went into the fire, but her eyes searched for one name in particular. “I’ve not been here for long, but I’ve paid a few calls and run a few errands. I’ll be hosting Uncle Edmure for dinner in a few days—” She belatedly remembered that Lord Baelish was a childhood acquaintance of her mother, aunt, and uncle. “Oh, you should join us! I’m sure my uncle would be glad to see you.”

“You’ll have to properly call in order to extend the invitation,” Baelish said, raising an eyebrow.

Thinking quickly, Sansa said, “I’ll send a footman with a card.”

He smiled. “It will be a pleasure to see you in a more… proper capacity,” he said. His eyes flicked over her body, taking in her disheveled men’s attire — it unsettled her.

Sansa frowned — both at his gaze and at the lack of letter from Mr. Tyrell. “Were there any others?” she asked.

Lord Baelish held it up, just out of her reach. “Willas Tyrell?”

“He’s very interested in Mr. Stone’s opinions,” Sansa said, as evenly as she could.

“I’d gathered,” Lord Baelish said, in the tone of voice that could be either amused or dangerous. “He delivered the letter to me in person, after the meeting of the Council had finished. He stayed to talk and asked a good many questions about Mr. Stone. I told him I had to respect my client’s privacy, of course, but I don’t think that entirely dissuaded him.” He passed the letter over his desk.

Sansa snatched it.

“You enjoy his attentions?” he asked, and again Sansa tried not to blush at his choice of words.

“He’s an interesting correspondent,” she answered. “I enjoy hearing his opinions.”

That was all it was — all it could be.

* * *

“Miss Stark!” Alys, Sansa’s maid, hissed, resting a hand on her shoulder. “You’ll be late for breakfast if you don’t rise soon.”

Groaning, Sansa peeled herself out of bed. Impatient to see Mr. Tyrell’s latest letter, she had stayed up late into the night reading it after she arrived back home, and when she saw its contents, she had lain awake even longer angrily composing her next article in her head. Alys prodded her over to her dressing room and helped her into a shift and morning gown before sitting her down to fix her hair.

“What on earth have you done to it?” Alys asked, horrified by the messy braid that was the remainder of Sansa’s attempt to hide her hair last night.

“I must not have slept well,” Sansa said, yawning.

Alys made a disbelieving noise but asked no further questions, attacking the tangles with a hairbrush.

Mr. Tyrell’s letter had related a story that was almost certainly the topic Lord Baelish had alluded to — Lords of the Council scheming to bully Miss Tarth out of her rightful seat. It was appallingly crude, and the rumors alone could ruin her reputation if someone decided that one of them must have been successful in his venture. There wasn’t much that could make Sansa more angry than the idea of a woman’s reputation suffering, not from her own doing, but from something done to her.

Sansa sighed. “Have you heard about Brienne Tarth?” she asked Alys.

Alys hesistated.

“I won’t be angry with you for gossiping,” Sansa reassured. “I only know what I’ve heard, and I’m trying to sort out what happened, myself.” She would need to know what was circulating around town in order to do damage control.

That was all it took for Alys to launch into a recounting of every rumor she’d heard, and it turned out that Sansa’s suspicions were right. People had already started speculating on who had won the wager. Wonderful.

It was as good a time as any to continue writing about victim-blaming. She had already started, with her review of _The Winter Rose_ — perhaps she could make a series out of it, drawing upon stories of women throughout history.

The rest of Mr. Tyrell’s letter had been different. She had worried about what his response would be. Her last had been quite rude by refusing his invitation to meet — better to be rude than have her secret exposed — but Sansa was glad it appeared she had not grievously offended him. In fact, he had assured her that he was close friends with Prince Oberyn Martell and so was unafraid of scandal. _I would not be writing you if I was overly concerned with old-fashioned sensibilities and appearances,_ he said, and again extended his invitation, which of course Sansa was obligated to again deny.

He had also asked questions about her time so far in King’s Landing, about Wintertown and the North, and about her family — her _wife_ in particular. He had never inquired much on personal topics before, usually keeping it to their shared interests in politics. But he mentioned a few details about his family in return, touched on his plans for the week — he was having Miss Tarth over for tea, and Sansa burned with jealousy. To be situated for an acquaintance with Brienne Tarth… But Sansa would never be able to get a proper introduction without stirring gossip.

Breakfast was a subdued affair until Hill, their butler, delivered the morning post and all the calling cards she had been too weary to sort through yesterday. It was a neat but imposing stack, and Sansa prayed for forbearance, for she would have to spend most of the day answering invitations and returning calls when she had hoped to spend the time reading her new book and writing a reply to Mr. Tyrell.

She sorted through the cards attempted to sort them according to rank. _Celtigar, Stokeworth, Rosby…_ She groaned and prayed there would be enough others that she could put them off, hopefully indefinitely. Next she found two matched cards, golden words painted on deep orange. “Prince Oberyn Martell for you, and Princess Arianne for me.”

“What on earth do they want?” Robb wondered, but she was none the wiser.

“And the Royces, we should invite them to dinner,” she continued, plucking cards out of the stack. “And—” she froze, picking up an elegantly engraved invitation. “The Tyrells have invited us to dinner in two days.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm also in the process of moving cross-country, so it might be a week or two before the next chapter's ready to go up. 
> 
> Also again thank you so much everyone, I wasn't really expecting anyone to read this and you guys are awesome.


	5. Willas 2

A short note from Mr. Stone arrived in the afternoon, thanking him for the lead and promising to look into the matter further. Willas was relieved to see it — rumor spread too quickly and getting the story under control would only get more difficult if it was given the time to fester.

Miss Tarth arrived for tea shortly after, uncharacteristically wearing a pink dress. She moved awkwardly in it, as if she found the swing of the extra fabric distracting, and Willas found himself wondering if she’d worn it for Margaery’s sake. He had never seen her wear a dress, and judging from the talk around town no one else had either, but it seemed she had decided that a meeting with the future queen merited one.

She did something between a bow and a curtsy when she was introduced and immediately turned red, but when Lord Renly greeted her kindly, her expression lightened some. It was an imposing group — all of the siblings were present, plus Leonette and Renly — and somehow she seemed even more ill at ease than she did when speaking before the Council. In the Council chambers, her nervousness was balanced out by a sort of grim determination, but here, where Margaery kept conversation light, she just seemed confused about how to proceed. Selwyn Tarth was a quiet man, Willas recalled, and, as she was heir to Tarth, he didn’t think she had any siblings.

“Tarth is a remote enough island,” she answered when he asked. “My upbringing was very quiet. I was left to do as I wished, and I wished to be something more than…” She trailed off, glanced quickly at Margaery, and looked down at her feet.

“You have an interest in fencing, I heard?” Garlan asked. “Did your father encourage that, too?”

“As much as he encouraged anything,” she said, but there was a small smile spreading across her face now. “He said nothing, but he hired Goodwin — my teacher.”

“Do you get much chance to practice?”

She hesitated. “There’s a small fencing school I go to — Braavosi-owned, they don’t teach the style I’m used to, but the owner lets me come to practice anyway—”

“Why don’t you go somewhere else?” Loras asked. He’d looked bored before, quietly in his own conversation with Renly, but the talk of swordplay must have caught their attention.

“Most other places won’t let me in,” she said quietly.

Garlan, Loras, and Renly all looked at each other. “I think we can change that,” Renly said.

“Why don’t you join us tomorrow?” Garlan asked.

She seemed slightly more at ease after that, but she still kept the visit short. As she stood to leave, she glanced at Willas, and he walked with her to the foyer.

“I still find myself confused as to your intentions,” she said bluntly.

“We are colleagues. I want us to be friends,” he said, trying to match her candor.

“But why?” Uncertainty still lingered in her eyes — it was a sad thing, he thought.

“From what I can tell, you have a good mind and a good heart. Do I need more of a reason?”

She looked at him for a long moment. “I’ve never really had friends,” she said, quietly.

Willas had been starting to realize that. “I know the world can be cruel to those of us who are different,” he said. “But that just makes it more important to make friends where we can.”

She blinked a couple of times, nodded, and stuck her hand out. Willas shook it.

“Tea. You should return the visit. Sometime. I’ll send a card,” she said, reddening again, as she left.

“It would be a pleasure,” Willas said, as she hurried to leave.

He spent the rest of the afternoon reading and taking notes on proposals, drafting up responses, and summarizing the week’s meetings in case Father decided to pull his attention away from the Small Council long enough to check. He enjoyed the work, but as the afternoon trundled on, Willas had to admit he was looking forward to dinner, if only for the opportunity to speak with Miss Stark again. If pressed, he would say he was curious about Lord Stark, too, and that the younger sister would doubtless be amusing company.

However, the bulk of his thoughts rested with Miss Stark. They had at least one interest in common, she was likely well-read, and he could ask her thoughts on Miss Tarth’s book. He had already decided that she must be current and informed on other matters, too — she was interested in Miss Tarth, so she had to be interested in the vote, or perhaps she was familiar with Mr. Stone’s writings about the legislature, or maybe she had an opinion on more universal suffrage…

Before he knew it, the Starks were being announced and he looked up to see Miss Stark, wearing an elegantly embroidered lavender evening gown— He thought back. Was she still in mourning for her father? He hadn’t thought Lord Eddard Stark had passed so recently, but perhaps she — and her siblings, he noticed — were particularly devoted. Each time he had seen her, she had been wearing grey and white, he now remembered. Once he knew who she was, he had assumed it was because they were the Starks’ colors. Lord Eddard had been a good man, Willas remembered, though his tenure as the Hand had been turbulent, to say the least.

Absently, he wondered what Miss Stark would look like in brighter colors—

“…and my brothers, Willas, Garlan and his wife Leonette, and Loras.”

He had missed most of the introductions, but still managed to bow at the appropriate time, avoiding looking like a complete boor.

Margaery had claimed Miss Stark’s arm and was leading her further into the drawing room, so Willas greeted Lord Stark, inviting him to sit with him and Father. Leonette kindly greeted Miss Arya, who, looking bored, joined her on a settee.

While they waited for dinner, he and Father had a perfectly pleasant conversation with Lord Stark about hunting — Willas couldn’t ride, but he knew quite a bit about hounds — even though Willas was distracted, glancing over every so often to where Margaery and Miss Stark sat talking by the fire.

When the dinner bell rang, Margaery was suddenly by his side. “Escort Sansa into the dining room,” she whispered, and Willas immediately complied, offering Miss Stark his arm. She hesitantly took it, and they made their way slowly down the stairs on account of his leg. He wondered what had changed. She had not shied away from him in the bookstore — had she just now noticed his leg?

To her credit, she remembered herself quickly and made some observation about the weather as he brought her to her seat. “Yes, it is a shame that summer seems to be leaving us,” he replied once they were sitting. “I expect we shall see white ravens before long.”

“Winter is coming,” she said dryly, one eyebrow arched.

“Have you seen a proper winter yet?” he asked. He guessed she was Margaery’s age, so perhaps she hadn’t.

“No,” she said. “I was very young when the last ended.”

They were interrupted by the dishes being laid out, and everyone began serving.

“I remember you had Brienne Tarth’s book when we first met?” he asked, once all the movement had died down. “Have you had a chance to read it yet? What did you think?”

“Oh, it wasn’t for me,” she said, distracted by her sister apparently in animated conversation with Garlan down the table. “I was picking it up for my brother.”

He paused. “You seemed knowledgeable about her writing when we spoke.”

“Oh — Robb is quite fond of her writing. He talks about her sometimes and I suppose I’ve retained some of what he says.”

She then turned the subject to the Royal Wedding, and Willas was left wondering if his prior view of her had always been wishful thinking, or if something about her had changed.

The women’s retreat into the drawing room couldn’t come soon enough, seeing as Miss Stark kept up a flow of pleasant but banal conversation throughout dinner. Willas thought he might die from the combined boredom and disappointment. There had been one spark that broke through her bland veneer — when lemon cakes were included in the dessert spread. She had thanked him with real pleasure when he snagged one for her.

Over glasses of port, he found a moment when his brothers and father were diverted by talk of affairs at Highgarden, and took the opportunity to speak with Lord Stark.

“Your sister tells me that you enjoy Brienne Tarth’s writings?” he began.

Lord Stark looked confused. “Who?” he asked.

* * *

“I don’t understand them,” Willas complained to Oberyn over a game of cyvasse. “Miss Stark is either lying or a good deal simpler than I thought she was, and Lord Stark seems to have little knowledge of anything happening in modern politics, when—” Willas huffed with frustration. “He’s Lord Paramount of the North. He should know better.”

Oberyn shrugged, rearranging his elephants. “This _is_ the first he has come to King’s Landing since he became Lord Stark.”

“Has he at least been attending Small Council meetings? I’ve noticed his delegate is still on the Large on his behalf. Not that there’s anything wrong with that—” Willas and Oberyn both officially held their seats as delegates; Oberyn because of Prince Doran’s inability to travel, Willas because his father preferred the influence he was afforded on the Small Council— “Only as one point in the trend that is his lack of interest.”

“He has been, though I have not had much opportunity to speak with him. I am expecting him to call tomorrow,” Oberyn said. “I suppose upon a real meeting I might see what kind of man he is.”

Oberyn’s trebuchet took down Willas’s dragon.

“If I may speak a word in Miss Stark’s defense,” Miss Sand said from where she was sketching by the window, “I count myself lucky to be in present company, but you must remember that there are many men who do not find a woman’s intelligence or opinions to be attractive qualities. And if there’s anything I’ve heard of Miss Stark, it’s that she is very poised and very fashionable. Of course she would not be so candid with you upon so short an acquaintance.”

It could be a reasonable explanation, but— “But this is a step backwards. She was more candid with me when I was a complete stranger.”

“Your family name could be intimidating,” Miss Sand countered.

But she was friends with Margaery. She was a _Stark._

“Or she has outdated ideas on how she should act to attract a man,” Princess Arianne added, from where she lounged on a sofa. “You northerners have such strange customs.”

There was no way that was even a possibility—

“You are very distracted today, my friend,” Oberyn said as he killed Willas’s king. “Ellaria, would you please ensure Miss Stark receives an invitation to the ball? I think Willas is smitten.”

“I had already planned on it,” Miss Sand said.

“What? No,” Willas said. “She’s beautiful, yes, but she would be a good deal more attractive without whatever game she’s playing.”

Oberyn smiled knowingly. “Of course. Only, take care so as not to make your mysterious gentleman caller jealous.”

Willas sputtered. 

* * *

A longer letter from Mr. Stone had arrived while Willas was out, and he sat down at his writing desk to read it.

_…Wintertown is a small town in the North; very different from the mountains where I grew up, but there is something beautiful about the wild Northern countryside. Great evergreen forests, summer snows, and brisk wind…_

_…I have not brought my wife to town with me, as she does not exist. I’m afraid I have resigned myself to perpetual bachelorhood. I live only with my sister, Alys, and seeing her tangles with romance has left me jaded about the institution of marriage as a whole…_

The idea that he wasn’t the only man destined to be a bachelor for life was unhealthily pleasing. Never mind that for Mr. Stone, it appeared to be by choice.

“Willas?” Margaery was saying. “Are you paying attention at all?”

“Hmm?” Willas looked up from the letter.

“I said I’m seeing Sansa for tea soon, and I’ll invite her back over on Saturday. You’ll join us, won’t you?”

He agreed reluctantly. “But why are you so determined to get us in the same room?”

“Oh, no reason,” Margaery said flippantly. “It’s only that she watches you when you’re not paying attention, and the two of you look so handsome together.”

Willas rolled his eyes and returned to his letter.

_…I have written a review of Miss Tarth’s book; ordinarily I would withhold my opinion so as not to spoil it, but under the present circumstances, I am not sure when it will be published. I will say my opinion is overwhelmingly positive and that I agree with her thoughts on lack of acceptable industry. About the only ways for women of our station to have any kind of financial independence are to become a governess, or else make like Miss Tarth and publish revolutionary texts to shock and horrify those in polite society. For obvious reasons, these paths are not realistic options for many women…_

‘Women of _our_ station,’ Mr. Stone had written, and Willas was right back to wondering who exactly this man was.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not done moving yet, so there might still be delays on the next chapter. Thanks again everyone :)


	6. Sansa 4

“You were very rude to Loras Tyrell the other night,” Sansa said as they walked in one of the rambling parks downhill from the Dragonpit.

Arya scoffed. “Everyone says how he’s so chivalrous and great with a sword and should be knighted, but he’s just another dandy.”

A passing young man snorted, hearing them.

“I am so sorry,” Sansa said, mortified, but he shook his head, laughing, and walked on. “Gods, Arya. You can’t just say whatever you want whenever you want to.”

“Why not?” Arya asked, peeved. “It’s true. Loras Tyrell cares for his name more than anything else. Garlan’s the one who’s actually done anything.”

Sansa sighed and pulled Arya back to where their carriage was waiting. “You can think whatever you want. No one can stop that. But you _cannot_ just go around saying whatever you like aloud. The Tyrells are about to be royals— Do you understand how precarious our position is here? Do you know how many people are always watching?” she whispered, after they had both been handed in. Arya rolled her eyes and Sansa felt the familiar hot rush of frustration rising through her chest. “We did not leave King’s Landing in good standing three years ago. We were in grave danger, and Father did all he could, but— It wasn’t enough.”

“What do you mean we were in danger?” Arya said aloud, not taking the matter seriously — Sansa shushed her and she continued in a slightly lower voice. “I thought Father just had a disagreement with the King—”

Sansa shook her head. “There was a disagreement, well, several, and I don’t know what all of them were about, but it wasn’t good. You remember we had to hide in the house, all the curtains drawn, no candles after dark, and only Jory there with us?”

“Yes,” Arya said slowly. “But I thought that was— I don’t know what I thought that was.”

“It’s because the Queen’s men were looking for us. I—”

“What?”

Sansa bit her lip. “It’s my fault, partly. Joffrey was always so angry with me and—” She paused, took a deep breath. “You don’t know what he’s like when he’s angry.”

Arya’s eyebrows knit together. “You’re scared,” she observed.

“You should be, too,” Sansa hissed. “You don’t understand what they’re capable of— Don’t you think there was anything suspicious about how Father died?”

“It was Wildlings…” Arya said, uncertain.

“Wildlings with guns and powder. Who armed them, do you think?” Sansa spoke in a whisper, but she still regretted the words as soon as they had left her mouth. A furtive glance outside revealed no one — not that Sansa had expected anyone to be hanging onto their moving carriage to listen, but somehow the Queen always _knew_ —

For a long time, Arya was quiet. “They did this, because they were angry with you? They wanted you?”

“Yes, but—”

Arya’s gaze hardened like cold steel. “I told you so many times that Joffrey was a rat.”

“You think I don’t know that by now?” Sansa shot back, indignant, but Arya barreled on.

“But you couldn’t stop singing his praises. Your _perfect golden prince_ ,” she said mockingly. “You _let_ this happen. You always took their side— You only made things worse—”

Arya let out a noise of frustration, clenching her fists so tightly that the knuckles turned white. She kicked the door open and jumped—

“Arya!” Sansa shrieked, but Arya had landed nimbly on the cobblestone and was running away, weaving through the thankfully congested traffic on the street. Sansa sat frozen in shock for just a moment before shouting for the driver to stop. Once it had slowed, Sansa was out the swinging door too, landing with a splatter of mud. Arya was nowhere within sight.

“Arya!” she shouted again, but there was no answer. She hesitated by the side of the road, bunching the layers of her skirts in her hands so as not to trip, before darting into the street herself. She hadn’t run like this since she was a child, chasing down Arya for throwing mud— She stopped short so as not to hit a carriage rolling by, frantically looked both ways, sprinted the last stretch to the other side.

She ran until she was sweaty and breathless, her dress covered in mud and her hair falling down. Arya was nowhere to be found.

* * *

 

Sansa paced, getting mud all over the marble floor of the foyer. “We argued, and she ran away, and I have no idea _where_ she is—”

They hadn’t fought like that in ages. She had never exactly told anyone what had happened with Joffrey, but it had still been years since any of the family had mentioned him around her. His face appeared in her mind, and she shuddered. How had she ever thought he was handsome? He was so hateful, all of them were, and their poison still infected all they had ever touched.

In a way, Arya was right. The memory of the girl she used to be mixed with the fear that Arya would run into something, that she might come home hurt or not at all, made her limbs tremble. She opened the front door, and, seeing nothing, leaned up against the great direwolf statue for support.

Robb made hushing noises and put an arm around her shoulder. “Hill has all of the staff out looking for her. There’s nothing more we can do now. They’ll find her, or she’ll come back on her own.”

“But what if she doesn’t?” Sansa cried. “What if something happens, and _that’s_ all my fault, too—”

“Nothing’s going to happen,” Robb assured. “She’s smart. Resourceful. And she can be charming, when she wants to be. She’ll come home.”

Sansa sniffled.

“You should come inside and lie down.”

“No, I should be waiting for her here,” Sansa protested.

Robb sighed and disappeared back inside for a moment. When he returned, he clumsily wrapped a quilt around her shoulders like a shawl. “Prince Oberyn sent us an invitation to a ball next week,” he said, leaning up against the direwolf that flanked the other side of the entryway.

He was trying to distract her, and she let him.

“I’ll write him tonight to accept it,” she decided.

“Do you think we should?” Robb asked. “I’ve heard his balls can be… salacious.”

Sansa shook her head. “People love to gossip, and it will be much worse if we slight a Prince of Dorne than if we attend a party on the wrong side of scandalous,” Sansa said. “If we don’t go, people will wonder why we feel we have to hide.”

Robb groaned. “Arya’s not going, at least.”

“Do you think you can stop her once she hears about it? She’s learned that Prince Oberyn’s daughters all know the sword.”

Robb opened his mouth to argue, but a flicker of movement down the meandering path to their front door grabbed their attention. They both froze.

“Arya!”

She let out the breath she had been holding and stumbled down the steps. Robb followed, his arm out to steady her at the elbow, and the three of them crashed together into a mess of an embrace.

“I’m sorry.” Arya’s voice was muffled against Robb’s shoulder, but she lifted her head enough to meet Sansa’s eyes. “I was unfair.”

“Oh Arya.” Sansa felt tears welling up again, and stroked her sister’s hair. “You didn’t say anything I haven’t thought about myself. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have told you like I did.”

“No, you shouldn’t’ve,” Arya agreed. “But no reason we can’t both be sorry.”

Sansa laughed, and the tears started to fall again.

Robb cleared his throat. Both sisters looked up, and Sansa’s heart almost stopped beating when she saw they had another witness — the man who had laughed at them in the park.

“This is Lord Edric Dayne,” Robb said.

“…Oh,” Sansa and Arya said, in unison.

He didn’t stay long, only checking to make sure their little family was okay, and left his card. “I’d been wanting to introduce myself ever since you first came to town,” Lord Dayne said, “but I didn’t know if it would be odd. Your father was well acquainted with my family, but it was long ago, before I was born.”

Sansa nodded, not knowing what to say beyond giving him her profuse thanks.

“How much did you tell him?” Sansa asked, after he had left.

“Nothing!” Arya exclaimed. “Only that we had fought, and— he saw me crying,” she mumbled. “And he told me that, whatever you did, everyone does stupid things at fifteen and we— we can never predict how things are going to turn out.”

And then they cried some more.

* * *

 

A cool, wet cloth over her eyes had helped with the puffiness, but time was the only thing that would ease the redness away. Still, she and Robb had an appointment to keep with the Martells, and Sansa refused to send Robb to make her excuses. Short of actual illness, Sansa would not cancel on Princess Arianne Martell.

She sponged herself clean, put on a fresh dress, and had Alys fix her hair where it had come loose from the wind and the panic. Hoping to draw attention away from her eyes, she pinched at her cheeks, already rosy from all the running, and bit at her lips. It didn’t make much of a difference, she thought, looking at herself in her mirror, but there was nothing else to be done.

When she and Robb were shown into Prince Oberyn's parlor, Mr. Tyrell was sitting there as well and Sansa regretted all of the morning’s decisions. Of course, she berated herself. Mr. Tyrell and Prince Oberyn were good friends, he had even said so in his last letter. _Of course_ he would be there when she came to call looking like a breathless disaster.

"I did not know you would be joining us today, Miss Stark," Mr. Tyrell said, and she hoped it was surprise and not shock that had crossed his features as they entered.

"I must have forgotten to mention it," said a woman who could only be Princess Arianne as she breezed into the room. She was so beautiful that everything around her looked plain in comparison, and Sansa feared that she must be exceptionally so. "And I'm afraid to say Miss Stark will not be joining you today; I had hoped we could have our tea on my balcony instead, since the day is so nice.

“Also so that we can talk away from the men,” Princess Arianne whispered conspiratorially as they climbed a winding, airy staircase. “For we have much to discuss, no?”

Sansa murmured an affirmative, but had no idea what exactly the Princess had summoned her here for.

Another impossibly beautiful lady was waiting for them at the low table where a servant was setting the tea service. Princess Arianne introduced her as “Miss Ellaria Sand, my uncle’s paramour.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Sand,” Sansa said, and from the way Princess Arianne smiled as they sat down, she felt as if she had passed some sort of test.

“Are you well?” Miss Sand asked. “If you had needed to rest today, we would not have taken offense. Well, not much offense,” she amended, glancing at Princess Arianne.

It was a good thing she had decided to come, despite appearances, Sansa reflected. “It is nothing,” she answered. “Do you have siblings, Miss Sand?”

“None that I am close to,” was the answer.

“But you do, Princess?”

Princess Arianne laughed. “I wouldn’t call either of my brothers close, but yes, I have them.”

“Then you know that relationship can be trying at times.”

“Yes,” she answered. “That I certainly know.”

The fight and the lingering remnants of the fear weren’t enough to keep her from this meeting, though if they hadn’t found Arya — if Lord Dayne hadn’t found Arya — it would be a different story.

They spoke of the many families in town while the Council was in session, Prince Oberyn’s upcoming ball, and the new fashions that were sweeping through the city — Princess Arianne gifted ball gowns, in the Dornish style, for Sansa and Arya.

“I hope you do not think me too forward, but I do so wish us to be friends,” she had said, “And I dearly miss seeing the styles of the Dornish court.”

Miss Sand then made her excuses to slip away—

“I had asked her to give us some time to speak alone. I have been eager to meet you, Miss Stark, and I think that we can help each other,” she said, eyeing Sansa speculatively.

“I’m not sure what you mean,” Sansa said, wary.

“I understand you have some interest in politics and Miss Brienne Tarth? It is such a shame that the council won’t let her act in the full capacity of her seat; she is as capable as any man. So many here in the north underestimate women — to their detriment, I think.”

Would her slip-up in the bookstore ever stop dogging at her heels? “Whoever told you must be mistaken,” Sansa said blandly, “I’m afraid I know little of politics, except for what I’ve happened to overhear from my brother, and my father, while he lived.”

“Come, Miss Stark.” Princess Arianne looked amused. “I brought us here away from the men so that you would feel comfortable speaking clearly with me. There’s no need to pretend here; I’ll not judge you for having a mind of your own. Nor would Mr. Tyrell,” she added slyly. “I know that he likes his women to have opinions.”

Several emotions hit Sansa at once — mortification at the implication about herself and Mr. Tyrell, curiosity about his prospective attention, a pang of jealousy at the thought of _his women,_ and, above all, an overpowering nervousness over Princess Arianne’s unknown intentions. “I am familiar with Miss Tarth’s writings,” she admitted.

“There we are,” Princess Arianne smiled, and there was something hungry lurking behind her eyes. “And her plight? That they allow her to speak on the Council floor to make a spectacle out of her, but deny her the right to put her voice to a vote — you must have some sympathy for her.”

“I believe Miss Tarth to be a very capable woman,” was the most neutral answer Sansa could come up with.

“Capable, yes, but she should not have to fight alone,” the Princess said. “I would like to see more women on the Council. On both Councils.”

“Starting with yourself?” Sansa asked.

“Oh, no, my dear,” she laughed, “Starting with you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so so so sorry it's taken forever for me to update. I found a plot hole, and while I was trying to fix it, life happened. I have some chronic health issues that flared up, then several older relatives got sick/needed surgery one after the other and I was all over the country to help out, and I also interviewed for and started a new job. 
> 
> And, if I may be petty, I was pretty disappointed with season 7, and it really put a damper on my enthusiasm for a while. 
> 
> I'm still working on fixing the plot hole, but I hope to be back to updating regularly. 
> 
> Thank you so much for all of your comments/kudos/etc. Getting those email notifications really helped me out through all the crazy. <3


	7. Sansa 5

“Excuse me?” were the only words that came to Sansa’s mind. The only polite ones, anyway.

“Your brother doesn’t seem to take much of an interest in politics. Who is his delegate, again…?”

“Lord Bolton. What makes you think my brother is uninterested?”

Princess Arianne shrugged. “This is the first he’s come to take either of his seats, yet he has still only claimed one.”

In the rush of her fury, Sansa forgot her pretensions of ignorance. “There’s a war on, in case you Southerners have forgotten. So my brother takes more of an interest in local politics? It’s our men who fight and die so that the rest of the Kingdoms may enjoy peace. I have a brother on the Wall. I have an uncle missing in action. I have a father dead in a raid. Few enough supplies come our way, and even fewer soldiers. They say it’s because of the expense of ground transport, but then import taxes are outrageous, and there’s not a damn thing we can do about it because so much of the land lies vacant and there are so few Northern lords. The only way to get more of a voice is to get more seats on the Council, and we can only do _that_ by resettling what has been taken, and we can only do _that_ by winning this war — singlehandedly, apparently.”

The Princess clapped. “That is the sort of passion I would love to see on the Council floor. Imagine if you had the vote to go along with your seat.”

“I don’t see what difference it makes,” Sansa said, trying to rein herself back in. She couldn’t let the mask slip again. She couldn’t afford to attract the attention of the Lannisters. “My brother’s seat is held by a Northern lord. Surely that’s all that should matter.”

“And how much do you trust Lord Bolton?” Princess Arianne asked, and waited for an answer. Sansa didn’t have one. With half a sly smile, she continued. “Wouldn’t it be better to keep the seat within the family? Your brother is needed in the North — I understand now — and your younger brothers are so young. It’s such a shame that you are prevented from taking it. You are intelligent, passionate, well-read; you hold the interests of your people at heart—”

It was only flattery, Sansa told herself. “What is it you want out of this? What do you expect to gain?”

“I suppose you will find it unsatisfactory if I say I want the advancement of all women? Very well; I am not entirely altruistic.” She paused, and Sansa thought it was more for effect than to gather herself. “I am my father’s heir; the rule of Dorne should be mine by right. Yet my father intends to disinherit me in favor of my brother. I don’t know the reason why, but I know the reason he will give is that a woman cannot represent Dorne’s interests in King’s Landing. I will not have what is mine taken from me; I will be the ruling Princess of Dorne one day, and I will not send a man in my place. You see, we can both help each other.”

Sansa shook her head so vigorously she thought her hair might fly out of its pins. “I can’t.”

“And why not? What is it you fear?”

A single breath of humorless laughter found its way out of Sansa’s lungs. “Not _what_.”

“Who, then?” The Princess studied her. “The Lannisters. You have angered the Lannisters. They are no friends of ours, not after what happened to my aunt. But you need not fear them. We are friends, yes? I protect my friends.”

A wobbly smile forced its way onto Sansa’s face. “Perhaps you should extend that friendship to Brienne Tarth.”

“You will need more convincing, I see. It is no matter; I can be patient. And while I greatly admire Miss Tarth, there is something you have which she lacks.”

“And what is that?”

“Subtlety. She has many strengths, but guile is not one of them. But here we are, two fashionable ladies drinking tea. Nothing particular to note. If I were to invite Miss Tarth around, people would talk and it would be quite impossible to get anything done.”

* * *

 

As their carriage rambled along the winding streets towards home, Robb sat silent, gazing unseeing past the hanging curtains. He was too often solemn since they had come to King’s Landing; the city was starting to have its effect on him, like it had with Father. This was not home, where Robb could give time and consideration to each of his lords to put a stopper in their scheming. This was not the North, where the looming specters of war and winter put an end to petty squabbling.

He looked older, tired — and his bearing was so much like Father’s that it made her heart ache.

“What did Prince Oberyn want?” she asked, trying to draw him out.

He blinked, startled, and it was a moment before he answered. “Nothing, really,” he said slowly.

Robb shouldn’t try to lie; he was awful at it.

She amended the question. “What did you talk about?”

He hesitated, opened his mouth, closed it again. “Justice,” he said, at length.

That was an answer that could be loaded with anything, but before Sansa could inquire further, he asked: “And what did you and the Princess talk about?”

Sansa took a sharp breath. “Dresses,” she said, thinking of Princess Arianne’s gift.

As soon as she arrived home, she took the gowns from their boxes to hang. They were done in the style of the Dornish court, all sensuously draped gauzy fabric. There would be little separating her from the rest of the world; the skirts were cut narrower than was the fashion in the capitol, intended to be worn without petticoats, and the back fell open. Stays and shift would be impossible, but those were the least of Sansa's worries.

Her heart pounded against her ribs, and her breathing had gone fast and shallow. She pressed a hand to her diaphragm and concentrated on slow, deep breaths.

She didn't like to think of the Kingsguard.

Mostly they had used fists or belts. Sometimes Joffrey liked to make a game of it, forcing her to choose where she wanted to be beaten — she had sat for a moment, dumbstruck, the first time he had asked. "The longer it takes for you to decide, the longer they'll be beating you," he had said.

She always chose poorly.

They had used the flats of their swords only once, hitting her across the back so hard that they broke the skin, and when it had healed over, silvery white scars were left behind.

No one knew. No one could have known. The only person who had seen her without her shift in all that time was the maid that the Queen had employed for her, sworn to silence, who had helped her keep it all bandaged and hidden.

She shouldn't wear Princess Arianne's dress, but she didn't see that she had much choice. Offend the Princess of Dorne, or reveal one of her most closely held secrets to all of society.

While Alys helped a complaining Arya into her new gown, Sansa undressed quickly, intending to slip into the gown, assess if it could be salvaged with some creative draping, and get dressed back up again before Arya stopped being difficult. She couldn't quite work out how it was supposed to stay on her body — was the _entire_ back supposed to be open? Did it tie somewhere?

While she was still fiddling with it, Alys walked into the dressing room.

"Oh, let me help you, there's a trick to it—" she started to say, but when she smoothed Sansa's hair aside, she flinched.

"Please don't say anything," Sansa begged. "It happened a long time ago."

But Arya was already crossing into the room and stopped short. She looked lovely in the new gown, some part of Sansa's mind registered — some secret to the weave of the grey silk had it shimmering like silver, bringing out the darkness of her eyes; and the way the silhouette fell around her perfectly complemented her toned, willowy frame.

Her expression was terrifying. Sansa sometimes forgot how fiercely loyal her sister could be — that protectiveness was rarely directed at her. Whenever articles critical of Father or Robb were written, she had seethed and ranted to anyone who would listen; when Bran had his accident, she'd sat by his bedside with Mother as much as she was allowed, glowering as if she would tear to pieces anything that threatened to hurt their brother further.

Now, she looked like she wanted blood.

"It's in the past, Arya," she said, praying that her words would get through. "There's nothing to be done."

"I want to talk to my sister alone, please,” she said to Alys through gritted teeth. As the door latched shut— “I was listening this morning. And this is what you were talking about," Arya said. Her voice was flat, emotionless. "They'll never hurt anyone again. I'll make sure of it."

"You can't _say_ that, Arya," Sansa hissed. "What if the wrong person hears—"

“No one’s here," Arya said. "And maybe it’ll take a long time, but I'll _make_ it so they can't hurt anyone again. I swear it."

"You can't change the past," Sansa said. "I'm free of them. There's nothing else to be done."

"You said we're still in danger. None of us are free," said Arya. "But we're not _helpless_."

"What do you think we can do, then?" Sansa asked, bitter.

"Tell Robb—"

"No," said Sansa firmly. "We can't tell him."

"But we're pack," Arya protested. "Father said we have to stick together."

"Robb's not just our pack," Sansa said. She took a deep breath. "He's the leader of all the North, and we're in the middle of a war. If we tell him, and he does anything against the Crown — they could retaliate and hurt so many more people than just me." And if they told Robb and he decided to do nothing — she didn't think she could bear it, even though she knew there was a good reason.

"Then I won't tell— But I'm not about to give up. You're not alone," Arya said. Frustrated tears started to trickle down her cheeks. " _Fuck_ them."

Sansa didn't particularly feel like correcting the language. "You'll ruin your dress," she said, wiping away the tears.

That made Arya laugh. "Priorities." She hauled over the stool and climbed atop it; effortlessly balanced, she tied up the Dornish gown in place. “There. How’s that?”

Sansa spun in a circle, trying to keep her reflection in view. The scars were visible, no matter how she turned.

"You don't _have_ to wear it," Arya said. “I’ll even go look for another one for you to try on, if you like.”

"It's a gift from Arianne Martell," Sansa said, resigned. "I'll offend her if I don't wear it."

“Then figure out a way to cover it,” Arya said. “I don’t know anything about clothes, but I do know half the women in King’s Landing want to be you. You could show up in damn near anything and it would turn into the newest fashion.”

Sansa laughed, but an idea was starting to spin around in her head.

* * *

 

Margaery came over for tea during the week, and Sansa had resolved to tell her. Nerves made her jittery — it was still early, after all, and she didn’t know Margaery very well. But seeing the Tyrells all together at dinner had made her take note of the changes within her own siblings, and sent her mind spiraling back to the way things used to be. Before King’s Landing, before it had all gone to hell.

The Starks had been as happy and whole once. There were still moments sometimes, shadows of what had been before, but now there was an anger and a sadness in each of them. Robb was becoming a solemn Lord Stark, too alike and too unlike Father all at once. For all she was maturing, anger burned deep within Arya, and Sansa feared what it might become if left to fester. Bran brooded, Rickon ran wild. Sansa suspected that the boys were all that kept Mother going day by day, and as for herself… Sansa felt a strange longing and loathing for the child she had once been.

Damn her soft heart, but she wouldn’t sit by and watch this city consume yet another family.

After Margaery had been shown in and the footman laid everything out, Sansa dismissed him, and then locked the parlor door for good measure. Margaery raised an eyebrow.

Sansa poured out the tea. “You haven’t asked outright, but you want to know about Joffrey,” she said. She wanted to keep her eyes down and hide her face, but she knew the risk she was taking — she kept a close eye on Margaery as she spoke.

“I do want to know what sort of man I will be marrying,” Margaery said, leaning forward. “I know what I see, and I know what the court will say — but I wonder what you will say.”

That was unhelpfully neutral. Sansa took a deep breath. Gods, she was making a mistake — she must be. Her hands were shaking again, she noticed, and she put the teacup down to grip her seat and still herself. Margaery’s eyes flickered over her.

“I won’t tell,” she said softly. “I know you’re afraid, and I want to know what you’re afraid of. I swear, whatever you say here, it won’t leave this room.”

Sansa nodded. It was only a little reassuring — anything these people said could be lies — but she had already started and couldn’t stop now. “He’s a monster,” she whispered. “He— he’s cruel for no reason. He sees insults where there are none. The Queen — she’s poison. They will both rip you down and make you believe you deserve it.”

Margaery took that with good grace. “I could see something of that lurking in them. But they did something more to you — I see that lurking in you as well.”

Something cold grabbed Sansa’s heart, and her mouth fell open like a fish’s. “I—” Could she say it? “The Kingsguard— Joffrey made them—” The words stuck in her throat, choking her; Margaery touched her hand, and Sansa saw such a kind sadness in her eyes that she had to continue to speak. “He had them beat me, behind closed doors. No one knew, but some suspected. Not enough to do anything about it, though.” If Father hadn’t been in the Capitol, if he hadn’t noticed what she tried to hide, if he hadn’t been an old friend of King Robert’s — it may well have ended differently.

Their hands clasped over the table. “I’m so sorry that happened to you,” Margaery said softly. “But thank you for telling me. Thank you for trusting me with this.”

“Are you still going to marry him?”

Margaery simply smiled, and Sansa could not identify the emotion behind it. “I must. My father is determined to see me as Queen. But I am glad to know, so that I may be prepared.”

“I got away,” Sansa said impulsively. “I plan to return North just as soon as I can. If you need— Winterfell will always be open to you.”

“Thank you,” Margaery said, coming to embrace her. “I will remember that.”

They both sniffled a bit, laughed, and cleared away tears. The afternoon shifted and returned to some normalcy, save for the wobbling of Sansa’s voice, and they talked about the upcoming ball.

“Joffrey won’t be there,” Margaery assured her. “Oberyn Martell never invites the Lannisters to anything. I’m surprised he invited any of us, to tell the truth — there’s some bad blood there after what happened with Willas— Though somehow he and Willas ended up friends, after it all.”

“What happened?” Sansa asked. Margaery had brought it up, it was natural to be curious.

“His leg,” she explained. “It was a hunting accident, it must have been ten years ago now. Father blames Prince Oberyn. Willas never has, though — he says it could have happened to anyone.”

“Your brother is very gracious,” Sansa said. “I’m not sure I could have forgiven someone that, accident or not.” If someone had been responsible for Bran’s fall, Sansa didn’t think she could forgive them, no matter the reason.

“He is. Sometimes I think he’s the best of us all,” Margaery said, meeting her eyes with a smile.

Sansa felt a flush creeping up her cheeks.

“Won’t you come over next Saturday?” Margaery offered as she took her leave. “I’ve made Willas promise to join us, since he has a day free of Council meetings, and I know he would be glad to see you.”

Would he really? Sansa wondered. She had noticed Margaery insisting he sit with her at dinner, and he had been perfectly polite all throughout Sansa’s attempts to bore the life out of him. Still, she nodded eagerly — she couldn’t help wanting to see him again.

* * *

 

Saturday couldn’t come quickly enough.

Lord Baelish was all propriety throughout dinner, but in the drawing room that evening, once everyone else was distracted by one of Uncle Edmure’s stories, he sat far too close to her — so close that she could smell the port on his breath. Ostensibly, this was to pass her a letter, but she was starting to learn better — she had managed to pass him the draft of her article about Miss Tarth discreetly, and without unseemly closeness. She edged away. After a trying afternoon, she had little energy left to deal with him.

“Willas Tyrell, again?” he asked in an undertone.

“Mr. Tyrell is very interested in Mr. Stone’s opinions,” Sansa answered, with as little inflection as she could manage, and then diverted him back towards Uncle Edmure, who was laughing uproariously as he so often did.

She hid the letter in the folds of her skirt, but after their guests had left, Robb stopped her on the stairs before she could slip away to read it.

“Thank you for arranging all of this tonight,” he said. “When it was Mother, when we were children, it was easy to take it all for granted.”

“I enjoy it,” Sansa said, clasping the letter behind her back. She did enjoy it, she realized. If Lord Baelish hadn’t been so inappropriate towards the end, the evening would have been spotless in her memory. This had been her first time hosting on her own, without Mother present, and even though it was only Uncle Edmure and Lord Baelish, it had been satisfying to arrange the menus and get everything ready for the evening.

“That’s good,” Robb said, grinning at her like he was about to ask for something. “Would you mind terribly if we had some of the Northern lords for dinner through the coming weeks?”

“Of course we could,” Sansa said. It was a great idea to strengthen those relationships. “Who shall I invite?”

“All of them?” Robb suggested sheepishly. “And the delegates, all of them too.”

Sansa blinked, and pointedly looked down over the railing in the direction of the dining room. “I don’t think we can fit them all,” she said.

“I know this is a lot to ask,” Robb said. “It’s just that— well, King’s Landing isn’t what I was expecting.”

“It’s very different, isn’t it?” Sansa sighed. “Father never let on. When we came down here the last time, I was so unprepared. I didn’t think so at the time, but I was.”

“I didn’t expect to be here long,” Robb said. “I still don’t. But Prince Oberyn—” He stopped himself. “He had a few things to say.”

“What?” Sansa asked.

“It’s not important,” Robb said quickly. “He just gave me a few things to think about.”

Sansa frowned. Robb was a rotten liar. What had happened with Prince Oberyn?

“If you get me a list of names, I’ll plan a few different evenings. More intimate, so that we get a chance to meet everyone,” she conceded, accepting that she wouldn’t get any more out of Robb. For now.

“Thank you,” he said, patting her shoulder as he continued on up.

She sighed. This would be a big undertaking, but it was important to keep good relationships with all of the Northern lords and their delegates. For all that the Northerners had united in the North, it was less so here in the capitol.

She started up the stairs again herself, turning the letter over in her hands. She slipped it into her dressing gown while Alys helped her change for bed, and read it quickly before she blew her last candle out for the night.

_…My family is very busy preparing for the wedding; seeing all the fuss and trouble makes me glad I shall probably be a bachelor forever…_

Sansa’s heart plunged into her stomach.


	8. Willas 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 17-Oct-17 - I made an edit. If you've already read this chapter, re-read Willas's conversation with Brienne. If not, carry on :)

When he woke, he could tell that it had rained overnight — he groaned and rolled over in bed. It was already shaping up to be a _wonderful_ day, he thought, as he found he could not bear to rest his weight on his leg for long.

As the weather here in King's Landing grew colder, he began to worry about his leg more — he never really felt _well_ , but it was usually manageable. Then again, this past summer had been so long — there had been no winter since the accident. As the days grew steadily more cold and damp, he began to realize that he couldn't stay in town indefinitely. He might have to retreat to Highgarden once the session of the Council had completed, and he likely wouldn't return until the weather lightened again.

It would be a shame to leave, but he was used to conducting long-distance friendships; he hadn't traveled much in the years just after the accident. He hadn't really realized that he could. Too caught up in his new limitations, he had not spared much thought for the things he could still do.

Oberyn was the one who had changed that.

A friendship with Oberyn Martell was the last thing he thought would rise from that disaster — they were very different people, after all, and there should have been some lingering guilt or resentment. But it had been an accident, and after this many years they had left all of that behind them.

And it was Oberyn's letters that had lifted him from the depths of his despair. The man radiated life, a fierce determination, even through ink put to paper. It was impossible to feel hopeless around him.

He had also sent the design for the wheeled chair that afforded Willas so much range of movement on bad days like these. Originally designed for Prince Doran, it was so unlike any other Willas had seen. Most were clunky and heavy, and had to be pushed by another person; not being able to move under his own power was the part he found most humiliating. He could move this chair by himself, pushing the wheels with his hands, and that alone had made thoughts of his future seem more bearable.

Once Oberyn had a mission he would not give it up, and Willas thought he had been Oberyn's mission in those days. It was for this reason Willas was certain that someday, the entire world would know the truth about Princess Elia and the children.

But now was not the time for dark thoughts; Willas would have to send a note to Miss Tarth postponing the visit he had planned to make today — despite all that it gave him, the chair was still impossible to use on stairs.

He also had to figure out a way to get out of tea this afternoon — he still didn't quite know what to think of Miss Stark, but he did know that he didn't want her to see him like this.

Over breakfast, he opened the paper to see two of Mr. Stone’s articles side-by-side — there was the review of Miss Tarth's book, and then there was:

_…Let the scrutiny fall upon the men whose predatory actions bring shame upon the Council, rather than upon the one whose voice and bravery seeks to bring it into the modern age._

_Her words — if they have no merit — must crumble as surely as their shaky foundation. The actions of cowardly men, afraid to hear her speak, have no place among representatives of her caliber. That the Council will not condemn this behavior reveals no flaw intrinsic to Miss Tarth; only the corruption that runs down to its core, poisoning those we have entrusted to govern — to control our way of life. If they cannot conceive of treating a woman with dignity, can they be trusted to govern with diligence and justice?_

Seeing it brightened the prospect of the day ahead — he'd known Mr. Stone would come through. But it would have to be the one bright spot in a dreadful day. A letter from Mr. Stone came with the morning post, and it was short and abrupt — had Willas said something to offend? He tried to recall what he had written the last time, and came up blank. He thought he had written mostly about Miss Tarth, and maybe a bit about his family or the wedding?

Did Mr. Stone want to go back to what they had before? Their correspondence had always been interesting, only detached — but Willas found he liked the little pieces of insight he got into Mr. Stone's life. It helped to paint the full picture of the man. In lieu of being able to meet — which Willas had begun to accept as inevitable.

He did not want to give it up. Their strange, growing friendship had become precious to him.

Words began to spin in his head — should he ask forgiveness? But he wasn't sure what for. Should he continue to write as normal, and hope Mr. Stone had simply had a trying day?

Should he scale back what he wrote, what he confided?

Without meaning to, he agonized over it, folding and unfolding the paper, reading each line and trying to decipher any hidden meaning contained therein. All too soon, it was time for Miss Stark's visit, and he hadn't come up with a suitable excuse.

"I'm sure that you and Leonette can keep Miss Stark entertained on your own," he protested, even as he wheeled himself over to the drawing room.

It was to no avail.

When she arrived, he still sat in that chair, though he managed to sort of stand to greet her — his face twisted in a grimace and she looked briefly alarmed. “I must have overexerted myself yesterday,” he said in explanation, because it sounded better than admitting that the weather was capable of incapacitating him, some days. “I hope you are feeling better than when I last saw you?” he asked in an undertone as she sat down. “I know it was only for a moment, but you looked unsettled.”

He had wondered — it was subtle, but she was never anything less than composed, and she had arrived at Oberyn's looking as if she had been crying.

“It was nothing,” Miss Stark said. “Arya and I got separated on our morning walk. By the time she found her way home I had convinced myself I would never see her again,” she said with a tiny, self-deprecating smile.

“That must have been so distressing—” Margaery must have overheard. “But here! We have lemon cakes; Willas says they’re your favorite.”

“You remembered?” she asked, turning to him. She met his eyes — they were startlingly blue — and he realized that she almost never looked directly at him, always beyond, as if there was something hovering behind his left ear.

“You were so excited when you saw them at dinner,” he shrugged. He still didn’t quite know what to make of her, but he couldn’t suppress the smile that surfaced at the memory of it — perhaps the only moment he'd seen her be genuine outside of that one day in the bookstore. If that was indeed who she was.

Color rose in her cheeks, and there was something satisfying about being able to affect her so. “A good lemon cake can make the worst of days better,” she said blandly.

Well. One pleasing interaction with her would have to do. She tried to be subtle, but Willas was used to noticing these things — she studied his chair when she thought he wasn’t looking, and Willas couldn’t stand to imagine what she must be thinking of him. He thought he’d hardened his heart to all of this — he’d heard the worst of what people could say, after all — but the judgment of a pretty woman was all it took to send his confidence crashing down. He should have stayed in his study — at least Mr. Stone's letter was a puzzle he had a chance of solving.

“Your chair looks very well-made,” she said. “You can push the wheels by yourself, with your arms? I’ve not seen one like it before — it must give you some freedom of movement.”

He had been lost in thought, and looked at her, startled — Margaery and Leonette were gossiping about some cousins Miss Stark might not have met, so she must be desperate for something to talk about. He nodded curtly.

“I wonder if you have the design? My brother Bran doesn’t have the use of his legs,” she explained. “We have a stableboy pushing him around, but he hates it. He was always so independent, energetic. To not be able to move around on his own — I can’t imagine how frustrating it must be.”

That was a sudden new perspective. He had known she had brothers, but the way news passed down from the North was strange, and often incomplete. He hadn't had that detail. The way she looked at him — was it something other than a dehumanizing amount of pity?

“Yes, I can get the design easily," Willas said. "Oberyn made it — his brother has a bad case of gout, and needs his almost constantly.”

“Thank you,” she smiled, and he smiled tentatively back. “Prince Oberyn sounds like a man of many talents. Poet, engineer…”

“Rake,” he said fondly. A part of him — a large part of him — was disbelieving that their conversation had gone this way.

She laughed, and something changed in her expression for a split second before she caught herself. She glanced at Margaery and Leonette — still chattering over whatever Megga and Elinor had lately done — and suddenly leaned very close to him.

It startled him so much that he flinched away from her as if she was a dangerous beast instead of a very beautiful, very confusing woman. But she wouldn’t let him move away, not entirely; her fingers brushed against his wrist and she looked at him beseechingly. Margaery would see and he would never hear the end of it, but he leaned back towards her.

“I’m sorry that this will seem rather sudden,” she whispered, “but I’ve talked to Margaery about this and she’s still determined to marry him. Please tell me there’s a plan to keep her safe. Please protect her. _He’s_ not all that he seems.”

He looked down at her and saw fear in her eyes. He had never seen that expression on her face before — she never wore anything that was not pleasant — and it was entirely jarring.

“Loras intends to join the Kingsguard,” he murmured back. “Whatever vows he takes, his loyalty is to our family.”

“Thank the gods,” she sighed, and she squeezed his hand briefly before she drew away.

  
He watched her a moment, trying to get the sudden pounding of his heart under control. When he finally turned back to the table, Margaery caught his attention, looked pointedly between him and Miss Stark, and smiled.

* * *

 

When he was able to visit Miss Tarth the next afternoon, she looked more at ease in her own sitting room, wearing her usual clothes. The newspaper still sat on her table, and she kept glancing at it and beaming.

“He liked my book,” she said almost shyly, as she poured out tea.

“Mr. Stone?” Willas asked. “He really admires your work — he always has some comment or another whenever you are published.”

“You know him?” There was an excited gleam in her eye.

“I write to him,” Willas amended. He really couldn't claim the close relationship, not after yesterday's letter. The man had made _something_ clear, even if he wasn't sure what. “I’ve been trying to convince him to meet with me — he’s in town on business — but he's refused. I think he must be a very private man.” Or he just didn't like Willas very much, and had been putting him off in an attempt to let him save face — and Willas had completely misread the signs and made an ass of himself.

“I’d like to meet him,” Miss Tarth sighed. “He was the first who ever stood up for me. Not that I need it,” she rushed to say. “But it’s… I don’t know… It was nice, in those days where everyone was against me.”

The articles about Miss Tarth were when Willas had really started to take notice of Mr. Stone, and he said as much. "The book, not so much— I had first thought it was intended just to shock and titillate."

"I never thought so," Miss Tarth said. She thought for a while before she continued. " _A Lady's Justice_ was written with such strong emotion — parts of it were obviously fictional, of course, but between that, there was very real pain. So much that it was difficult for me to read, in places. It felt very personal."

"I’d thought that Mr. Stone must have seen his mother go through something similar," Willas said. The thought had never entirely left his mind.

"Perhaps," Miss Tarth allowed. "But I had thought—" she shook her head. "No, it's silly. Wishful thinking."

"What is it?" Willas asked, curious.

She paused. "I had the thought— I had hoped— that it wasn't only me against the world," she said.

“You’re not just one against the world,” Willas reminded her.

“Not anymore,” she said. “But that's not quite what I meant. I had thought, perhaps, that he was a woman? Like I said, wishful thinking," she said quickly. "If he was, surely he would have come forward by now? Unless—"

The idea wasn't as absurd as Miss Tarth expected him to think, but— she had stopped. In a moment, a cold realization hit him. "If he is a woman," Willas said, "Is he— Is she still married to that man?" The one who had inspired the book in the first place?

From Miss Tarth's pale silence, he could tell she'd had the same thought.

"I'll have to write again," Willas said. He hoped to the gods that this wasn't the answer to his little mystery. "Perhaps we're wrong, or perhaps she's widowed or divorced."

But if they were right—

"If not, I'll go and find her myself," Miss Tarth said. "I can't— I hope that's not it."

So did he. "I'll let you know what I find out."

"It's unlikely— I hope it's unlikely."

"But not an impossibility." His heart thudded painfully; he took a deep breath to try to quell it. 

Miss Tarth's solemn face twitched with the hint of a smile, bittersweet. "Thank you for understanding," she said. "I haven't gotten used to having anyone to talk to — to having friends, if I may call you that."

It was sad to think on how lonely her life must have been. “Of course," he said, inspecting the tea he had remembered was in his hand. "And I know my brothers enjoyed fencing with you, even if Loras is still sore that you beat him. Garlan says you’re welcome along any time.” He took a sip. “And he also said something about Ser Jaime Lannister?”

What little lightness had returned to her face disappeared in an instant. “Ser Jaime Lannister. He was there — he laughed when he saw me, but then later he challenged me." She took an aggressive sip of tea. "I almost won.”

“That’s very impressive,” Willas said. “He’s said to be one of the best swordsmen alive.” He had been trained by the greatest swordsmen in recent memory — Ser Arthur Dayne, long dead, and Ser Barristan Selmy, wherever he had disappeared to.

“I’m going to beat him someday,” she said, with a determined set to her jaw. “Men like him have always looked down on me. He won't best me for long.”

* * *

 

The door to Margaery’s sitting room was left ajar, and voices filtered through — Margaery, Leonette, and Mother talking about the wedding.

“It’s all for appearances.” That was Margaery. “She wants to pretend the Crown isn’t drowning in debt.”

“How gauche.”

Willas knocked at the door before sticking his head in.

“Come to help with the wedding planning, have you?” Mother teased.

“For what it’s worth, I think the reception sounds excessive,” Willas said. “But no, I wanted to talk to Margaery — something Miss Stark said has been bothering me.”

Leonette’s eyes lit up. “It’s getting late, I think we should leave them to it,” she said, re-stacking the papers that were strewn across the table.

Mother laughed and stood. “I hear that Miss Stark is a lovely young lady,” she said, touching Willas’s arm as she left.

“What did you tell Mother?” Willas asked Margaery. He closed his eyes against the headache that was sure to rise from all of this.

“That Miss Stark is a lovely young lady,” she answered — he could hear the smirk in her voice. “So what has Sansa said that’s still on your mind? You seemed very close when she was over for tea.”

His eyes snapped open again. “It wasn’t like that,” Willas hurriedly tried to explain. “She was warning me about the King.”

Margaery’s expression didn’t really change, but she turned to look out the window into the night. “What did she tell you?”

“That we need to protect you, and he isn’t what he seems.” Willas thought the King seemed like an overgrown brat, but… “She was afraid.”

“The more I get to know her, the more I think she’s always afraid,” Margaery said. “I wondered if she specifically mistrusted me, but then she gave her warning. If the King found out what she had said—” Margaery shook her head.

“I don’t know what she’s afraid of,” Willas started, slowly. “If there really is danger— Do we need to get you out of here? Loras will be with you, but even he won’t be able to be by your side all of the time.”

Margaery smiled, but there was a hint of sadness to it. That was an expression he hadn’t seen in years. “It’s too late.”

“No, it’s not. It’s not too late until you say the vows. I can send you across the Narrow Sea — Pentos or Myr or wherever. They won’t be able to touch you there, won’t be able to make you come back. I can handle whatever happens here, so long as you’re safe.”

“You would send me into exile?”

“Only until the danger has passed—”

She cut him off. “The danger won’t pass until he’s dead.”

Willas ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. “So your solution is to marry the danger rather than get away from it?” he asked.

“If I run away, it’ll only make things more dangerous for the entire family. You know what happened to the Starks,” she said. “The Lannisters are dangerous — the Starks didn’t know at the time, but now we do, and I can’t let that happen to us. Besides, Grandmother has a plan. I’ll be fine.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've got like a ton of notes this time - please bear with me. 
> 
> Thank you, as always, for your comments/kudos/etc. I genuinely never expected this many people to read this. 
> 
> I have always enjoyed the show's interpretation of Margaery - "I don't want to be a queen, I want to be the queen." But in the books, I didn't really get the feeling that it was her pushing to be queen, hence my version here. 
> 
> Historical fun fact: The type of wheelchair that was commonly used in the early 1800s was very heavy and had to be pushed by another person (or pulled by a horse). (Look up the Bath wheelchair, if you're interested.) Lots of improvements to wheelchairs happened during the 1860s-1880s. So Oberyn's just ahead of the times. 
> 
> On the story itself: I've been doing a lot of rewriting. I was never terribly happy with my first draft from the ball onward. I've completely rewritten the ball, which I think gives me a better foundation to rewrite the rest of it - it's the next two chapters, and they're shaping up to be about twice as long as I usually write. Hope you're excited. 
> 
> And, so, like… rewriting changes a lot of things? I originally intended to write Arya/Ned Dayne, because 1. I love the Daynes, 2. Ned is adorable and shaping up to become completely badass, 3. I think he would really balance Arya out, in a good way? I think they are both very empathetic, loyal, and fiercely protective (see: pulling Beric Dondarrion out of the river and standing guard over his dead body in the middle of a fucking battle -- when he's like 13 and a squire), but Arya can sometimes be rash/jump to conclusions and I think he would be a calming influence on her, and he is like shy and quiet and I think she'd help him out of his shell, and 4. He is severely underrepresented in fic. Like seriously he's a badass cinnamon roll and I love him. 
> 
> Buuuuut… The more I revise this, the more Arya starts running away from me and doing her own thing (Oberyn is doing this too, gdi) and I think she’s telling me that she's gay in this story. I think she and Ned will still end up being friends? But she's also crushing on Brienne?
> 
> I might change the pairing. Let me know what you think?


	9. Willas 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two things before the chapter starts: 
> 
> In case you didn’t see it, I made an edit to the previous chapter. This is what I get for deciding to rewrite a scene like five minutes before I posted it, lol. (If you don’t feel like going back to the other chapter, summary of the change is that instead of being like "why won't Mr. Stone come forward" Willas and Brienne are now like "oh shit, what if she's still married to that husband") 
> 
> Also thank you for the comments last chapter and talking with me re: Arya. I’ve decided I’m sticking fairly close to what I already had planned. I figured out what was feeling unnatural to me about her and Ned - I've added some things, fleshed a lot out, and now have a much better understanding of what's going on in her head. (Haven't decided against her being interested in women, but I think that's a realization she wouldn't come to quickly.) Thank you so much everyone, that was super helpful.

"For Miss Stark's brother?" Oberyn asked. "Yes, I'll send it tomorrow. Express. Anything for Miss Stark's brother." He put his glass of brandy down and stretched; as he rolled his head from side to side, he looked at Willas. A smile played at his lips. "Does this mean you've actually been talking to her?"

"Briefly?" Willas said. Yes, he thought that was right. He also put his brandy glass down — he should probably stop. It would be a long night, after all. He had arrived to Oberyn’s early so they might have a chance to talk before the ball — there would be no opportunity after the entertainment started.

"And how do you feel about her now?"

Willas groaned. "Confused. Every time I talk to her, it's like she's a different person." He contemplated picking up his glass of brandy again, and ran his finger around the rim. "She's hiding something, I think. For just a moment, she seemed afraid of something." Of the King — but he didn't think that was a detail she would want him to tell.

"She's not wrong to be afraid," Oberyn said. "People in this city can be ruthless. If she's smart, she would have known that from her first time here. I understand she was not eager to return."

"Margaery invited her," Willas remembered. "But I'm not sure why. She never did explain that."

Oberyn picked up his glass again and took a sip, looking pensive. "In any case, this must be a good sign. She trusts you."

"I'm certain that's not it," Willas said. One thing that _was_ certain was that she had become close to Margaery; she only wanted to protect her friend. Admirable, to be sure, but not something he could claim as closeness.

"If you are determined to believe she cannot be interested in you—" Oberyn gestured with his brandy glass, and took a sip. "I know what I hear. She is aloof, she does not make many visits, she almost never invites guests to the Stark house, and when she does, it is obviously at her brother's request. You must have heard — that is the talk around town." Willas had heard — some of the Northern lords had been among the rare guests at the Stark house, obviously on Council business. "Yet you see her often."

"Not that often — she's friends with Margaery, of course I see her sometimes."

Oberyn shrugged. "See if she seeks you out tonight. I think she will."

Willas shook his head, picked up the brandy glass, and took a large sip. “What did you think of Robb Stark?” Willas asked, to change the subject. Oberyn had wanted a second opinion on Lord Stark, but had also wanted to speak with him alone, so Willas had left midway through the visit.

Oberyn took a sip of his brandy, and Willas could see from the way the drink lingered at his lips before he set it down that he was deciding how much to tell him.

“The truth, please,” Willas said. “It doesn’t have to be all of the truth — I know you will always have your secrets — but I hope you know me well enough to know you don’t have to lie.”

He raised his glass in a mock toast. “Sometimes, I think you know me too well.” Lounging back in his seat — he managed to make even that look elegant, intentional — he said, “He isn’t what we first thought of him, thankfully, but he’s not focused here, either. But I think we may be able to turn his attention. After you left, I asked about his father, his death. They have suspicions — nothing solid, but enough to be wary.”

“Wary of?”

“The Lannisters,” Oberyn said. His expression had gone dark, and he took a long sip of brandy.

“But I thought Lord Eddard was killed by wildlings,” Willas said, as his mind put the pieces together. Officially, Princess Elia and the children had been killed by crossfire, trying to escape the Keep while the city was taken. But Oberyn had discovered that wasn’t true — the angle of the bullet wounds that had killed them, the state of her chambers she had left behind, flecks of blood that had been missed in what must have been a rushed attempt to clean the room. The trouble was in getting anyone else to believe what he had found. “Oh,” he said. “ _Oh_.”

This must be what Miss Stark had warned him about.

He drained his glass.

“Yes,” Oberyn said. “He was, in turn, willing to indulge my suspicions, and I think we may be able to help each other.”

“Are you planning something dangerous?” Willas asked.

“Not presently,” Oberyn said. “You know I want evidence before anything else. The world should see them for what they are. The world should remember my sister’s name.” He stood to pour more brandy, and his movements were more harsh than his usual measured grace.

“What do you need me to do?” Willas asked. He had asked the same question many times over the years — this was important to his friend, so it was important to him. But he had always been rebuffed.

“Nothing, at present. Keep his sisters from finding out, he was adamant about that."

"If it concerns them — their family — shouldn't they know?" Willas asked. It made him uncomfortable, keeping something from them that could very well impact them.

"It's his family; he can make that decision." Oberyn gestured with his glass. "I don't like keeping everything from them, but nothing has yet happened. There is no reason to burden them with these worries."

Willas frowned. He didn't like this.

"Miss Stark is more intelligent than she lets on, but she has a gentle heart. And Miss Arya is still young. They are innocent in all of this; let them stay that way a little longer. If something develops, we will reconsider."

Willas wasn’t sure he agreed, but they were interrupted by a soft tap at the door, and Miss Sand appeared.

“Guests should be arriving soon—” She stopped, and looked at them. “There is a dark mood about you — you’ve been talking about the Lannisters,” she observed. Oberyn didn’t answer. “There’s nothing we can do tonight, my love,” she said, going over to him and taking his arm. “She would have wanted the truth to be known, yes, but she would also want you to know happiness and peace. We will find what we need, but not tonight.”

He drained the rest of his glass, and, at length, relaxed a bit. “You’re right,” he said, and bent down to kiss her.

“And thank you, my friend,” Oberyn said, settling down momentarily next to Willas — he took Willas’s face in both hands and kissed him on each cheek.

Oberyn did kiss him like that sometimes, and it never failed to fluster him. His face was tingling where Oberyn touched him — probably the brandy — and Willas brought his hand up, covering Oberyn's where it still rested against his cheek. He was very close, and Willas could feel the heat radiating from him. 

“For what?” Willas asked. His mind was having trouble stringing words together, and he thought he heard Miss Sand's muffled laughter.

“For being yourself,” Oberyn said. His hand lingered against Willas’s as he rose again and offered Miss Sand his arm.

Her hand brushed his as well as they left. “Take as long as you need,” she told him as they swept from the room, her eyes dancing with mirth.

Willas sat there for a while longer before following them down.

His head rushed a bit from all the brandy as he stood up — that would teach him to drink with Oberyn before, well, anything, really. Everything was bright and happy — the stairs, the breezy open rooms.  Oberyn’s mansion was done in the old Dornish style — sprawling rather than tall, with an abundance of arches, open courtyards, and balconies overlooking everything. In the daytime, it was filled with diffuse light coming through gauzy curtains, but now that the sun was set, hundreds of lanterns hung high over the grounds and the curtains were let loose to dance in the gentle breeze.

It was an arresting sight, he thought — the lightness of the curtains on the breeze, against the dark night's sky; lantern light dotting across it like big puffy stars. All of it swaying with the motion of the air, of the people, as if the earth was breathing as one—

Someone barged into him, almost toppling him over, and he reflected that he should not stand around like a buffoon while admiring Miss Sand's decorating.

People had started to crowd in — dancing had not started yet in the ballroom; that would wait until more had arrived, but there were enough milling about in the corridors, starting games of cards in the drawing room, waiting to greet friends and acquaintances as they arrived through the foyer. It was a slow, fuzzy kind of buzz, not the fast-paced strides of the streets. He could keep up; as long as he kept moving, he would not be swept away.

Fashionable ladies in jewels and lace and feathers, dapper men in colorful tailcoats and elaborate cravats. Scantily clad performers danced through the open courtyards, accompanied by musicians Oberyn must have brought back from his travels in Essos. Some stared, some averted their gaze entirely, but most watched from the corners of their eyes.

He meandered through the clusters of people like a leaf upon a calm stream. Utterly unremarkable. He was used to being invisible and all too visible all at once — frequently ignored, or stared at with a vague sort of horror. This was different. Everyone was caught up in their own friends and their own lives, and paid no particular attention to him.

Gods, it would be nice when someone he knew arrived.

At least he didn't have the problems his more charismatic siblings found commonplace— he had no false friends, no acquaintances who only wanted to align themselves with his name but had little care for him. He could foster those sorts of relationships in the Council chamber, but he had no patience for it in his personal life. He would never understand it, but Margaery seemed to thrive on it, enjoying picking apart motives and spinning everything to her advantage.

But sometimes he wasn’t sure where she drew the lines.

“Mr. Tyrell?” a voice broke through his study of the crowd. He turned his head and it was Miss Stark — for a moment he remembered what Oberyn had said. Had she sought him out? He smiled to see her; his heart thudded in his chest — but then he realized that she had just now arrived and entered. She must be looking for some acquaintance — anyone — to speak to.

He gave a short bow in greeting, and she curtsied. She was wearing a gown similar to Princess Arianne’s — ivory silk, draped to expose arms and cling suggestively to the legs. He looked back at her face. Gods, he was not going to be some drunk _leering_ at her. She was not an object made only for admiration — she was something of a puzzle, and he was starting to realize the depth to her. That strange fear.

He really shouldn't make her more uncomfortable by staring. But he couldn't help noticing — she really had striking hair. And eyes. Those were innocent enough things to notice, right?

"You look lovely," he said, mentally kicking himself as the words left his mouth. That was the exact opposite of what he had intended to do.

"Thank you," she said, dipping her head just a little. Self-conscious? Damn. That wasn't what he had wanted. Was she even blushing? Double damn. "You look very handsome as well."

He did his best to smile. Polite, as usual— gods, this was a disaster.

She looked around the room, taking in the crowds filling the wide spaces. "We don't often have events like this in the North — it's so far to travel. There are sometimes dances down in the village, but nothing so grand or beautiful. I suppose you must be used to this sort of thing."

"It's not unfamiliar." Mostly, he played cards with the men in the other room. He could not dance, but making those connections was useful to his work. "Oberyn's parties are better than most, though even this isn't a true Dornish ball."

"Have you been to one?" she asked, her head tilted towards him and a hint of a smile on her lips.

"Just once, when I was visiting Sunspear," he said. "Things are less structured there, and the dances are very different." It had been one of Oberyn's, and Oberyn was not the standard by which the rest of the Dornish should be judged. Still, it was not something he should be telling Miss Stark about, here or anywhere. "Miss Sand has done a wonderful job of reconciling the differences, making it palatable to those here. She is an impeccable hostess."

Miss Stark looked over to the entryway, where Oberyn and Miss Sand received their arriving guests. Some of them purposefully snubbed her — perhaps because she was bastard-born, perhaps because she was unmarried to Oberyn. Despite it, she remained poised and greeted everyone with equal courtesy. Oberyn was not ignorant of it, and he was not so gracious — his sharp eyes catalogued their faces, and Willas knew they would never be invited back.

"They don't treat her very well, do they?" Miss Stark observed. "Even though she made all of this."

"No," Willas said. "No, they do not."

Her mouth had tightened into the tiniest frown. "Once, I would have been like them. But I have since learned the value of kindness." Quickly, she glanced at him. It was strange, catching occasional glimpses of who she must be under all of the courtesies, and he thought he should say something, but—

“Sansa!” It was Princess Arianne, on the arm of Ser Arys Oakheart of the Kingsguard.

Ser Arys didn’t look at Miss Stark, but gave Willas a tight nod in greeting.

“I love what you’ve done with it. Very creative,” Arianne said, admiring the back of Miss Stark’s dress. “And you’ve done it while keeping in mind the most important principle of our designs.”

His conversation with Miss Stark had left a speculative, somber mood, but he couldn't help smiling at the mention — he had heard this talk from the Princess, Miss Sand, even Oberyn, countless times over the years. Arianne gave a sly smile.

"What is it?" Miss Stark asked. She subtly moved away from Ser Arys, making it look like she had only stepped back to keep all three of them in view — Willas might not have noticed, himself, if he hadn’t seen her eyes when the man had approached. Just a trace of that earlier fear — still so strange on her face — before she put on her pleasant smile again.

His mirth quieted at the thought.

"Mr. Tyrell is always very patient when he has to listen to Ellaria and I talk about fashion, and other silly things."

"Not at all — it is always interesting to learn something new," he said. "Movement — movement is the most important thing."

“The flow of the fabric, how it moves when you do,” Arianne said with a smile. “Dynamic, like the Rhoyne. It is a living thing."

“I didn’t know the tradition behind it,” Miss Stark said, “I thought it was so lovely, and it would be a shame to disturb it overmuch. Thank you again for the gift—” Here, she bobbed a quick curtsy, “I hope we will have a chance to talk later, but I’m afraid Arya needs me now.”

As she turned and hurried away, Willas saw what Arianne had complimented. Myrish lace wrapped her torso, affording her some coverage without disturbing the flow of the fabric. Why? A part of him wondered — even as he admired her shoulders, her arms, the line of her throat — it wasn’t a matter of principle that made her cover herself. He thought he had seen Miss Arya weaving through the room earlier, her back bare in the true Dornish fashion.

Ser Arys had also watched her leave, he noticed — he had not acknowledged her while she stood here, but studied her as soon as her back was turned. Strange — rude?

Princess Arianne had also noticed, if the look she shot him was anything to go by.

_Oh dear_. He did not want to get involved with that.

"Oh, I, er, see Miss Tarth. I had better introduce her to… Someone. You know she doesn't usually attend this sort of thing."

Damn. Why had he said that? He didn't see Miss Tarth, which would shortly become obvious — she towered over any crowd — was she even invited? Probably; Oberyn had taken an interest in expanding her social circles. Would she have accepted? He wasn't sure.

In any case, it didn't seem like the Princess was offended; she was already in a hushed conversation with Ser Arys as Willas turned and walked away — oh, there was Miss Tarth, after all.

“Thank the gods,” he said, seeing her.

She had been staring around at all of the people, shellshocked and looking as if she had found her own personal hell. Her head whipped around to face him as he spoke.

“Mr. Tyrell,” she said. “I didn’t expect— there are so many people.”

“Well, yes,” he said. They stood just off the foyer, where everyone was arriving. “Come through to the parlor, it’ll be a little less crowded.”

She nodded and followed; Willas’s little bit of anonymity was lost. People stared as they passed, but Miss Tarth held her head high, eyes fixed ahead — pretending to ignore them even as her cheeks colored.

Garlan and Leonette stood in a less crowded corner, and with them was Miss Arya.

"I wasn't allowed to go down to Wintertown for months after that," she was saying, rolling her eyes, as Garlan struggled to keep his laughter to a polite volume. Leonette also had a hand pressed to her mouth.

Wintertown. That sounded familiar. "Did you visit there often?" he asked, as they approached.

She turned her head and saw him. "Oh, hello. Yes — all the time. It's a short walk from Winterfell, and all my friends live there."

"I have an acquaintance who lives there — I don't suppose you know a Mr. Stone?"

“Mr. Stone?” Miss Tarth asked, interested. “He’s from the North?”

Miss Arya looked past him and must have noticed Miss Tarth for the first time.

“Oh— Miss Arya Stark, Miss Brienne Tarth,” Willas introduced. “We work together on the Council—” he explained to Miss Arya—

“And she fences with Loras and me, sometimes,” Garlan cut in, grinning.

Miss Arya’s eyes went very wide. “How did— they _let_ you?” she asked in a rush.

He could see Miss Tarth’s face closing off as she ducked her head, but—

“Do you think they’d let _me?_ ”

“I—” Miss Tarth blinked a few times. “Honestly, I don’t know.”

“Well, how did you get started?” Miss Arya asked.

“I was mostly left to do as I wished, as a child,” she said. She formed her words deliberately, choosing every one. “My father eventually hired a teacher, and… no one ever stopped me. They tried, but I didn’t let them.”

“Oh,” Miss Arya said, looking subdued. “Maybe Father would have let me, but—” she snapped her mouth shut. “I’m not supposed to— you asked about a Mr. Stone?” she directed at Willas. “I don’t think I know him, but Sansa might. She always paid more attention to that kind of thing.”

"Oh—" he remembered. "Your sister was looking for you, has she found you yet?"

Miss Arya groaned. "Is she going to make me dance tonight?"

"You don't like dancing?" Leonette asked. "I thought you would be very good at it."

"You do?" Miss Arya’s face easily displayed emotion, and he could tell that she didn’t believe it.

"You have good balance, and — I'm not sure graceful is the right word exactly — you're light on your feet, and quick."

Miss Arya wrinkled her nose at the word _graceful_. "That part's fine, it's remembering the steps. They make no sense, there's no _reason_ to it."

"Don't worry about it," Willas said. "If I know Oberyn, he'll start playing Dornish dances halfway through the night, and then no one will know what they're doing."

Leonette gave him a look over Miss Arya’s head. _Be nice_ , she mouthed, even as Arya smirked at the idea.

"They always start out with something simple, anyway," Garlan said, as the first notes began to filter in from the ballroom. "Can you dance a minuet?"

"Mostly?"

"Then will you do me the honor?" Garlan asked, bowing deeply and holding it — then, looking up at her, "It's slow enough, we can make it up as we go along."

"Go on," Leonette urged, and Arya nodded, though not without some hesitation.

"Gods, she is a joy," Leonette said as the dancers began to crowd into the ballroom. "Very independent-minded, it's refreshing. So many girls are discouraged from that, you know — taught to be quiet and demure and unopinionated."

Miss Tarth nodded. She must know better than most.

"I only hope she is able to hold onto it," Willas said, wondering how the Stark sisters could be so different.

"I count myself very lucky that I met Garlan," she said. "He's only ever wanted me to be the woman I want to be, if that makes sense."

"It does," Miss Tarth said. “I—” she paused, gathering herself. “I never saw the point in having a husband, if he would not treat you as his equal. But I know that I am very fortunate to be able to avoid marriage, should I choose. Many women do not have that luxury.”

"One way or another, I hope Arya is so lucky," Leonette sighed. "And Miss Stark," she said, raising a speculative eyebrow at Willas. "I think she desperately needs someone to let her be who she wants to be."

"I don't think Lord Stark is the sort who would force either of them into a marriage they didn't want," Willas said, avoiding the direction the conversation was turning to.

She laughed at him; she knew what he was doing. "Shall we go watch the dance?" she asked, gesturing towards the ballroom.

"If you wish to dance, don't let me keep you," he said as they all walked over together.

"Perhaps the next one," she said, catching sight of Garlan and bursting out laughing again.

He was making elaborate hand signals to Miss Arya as they made their way down the line; she was almost falling down with laughter and the dance they danced bore very little resemblance to the others around them.

"I can't—" Leonette chortled, "I'm going to find something to drink."

Willas couldn't help but smile as well. Others might be more technically correct, but no one else on the floor looked like they were having as much fun.

There was Miss Stark, dancing with Lord Baelish; every move executed with grace and never missing a step, but there was no joy on her face. As always, she was placid and polite, nothing more.

Still, her beauty drew the eye, and, throughout the night, he found himself watching her dance whenever he wasn’t engaged in conversation. The thought briefly crossed his mind that, if not for his leg, he would ask her to dance, but it did no good to think about things that couldn’t be.

Regardless, he couldn’t stop himself wondering — would she have smiled for him? She had looked on the verge of it earlier, before the Princess and Ser Arys had joined them. And now, where she was across the room speaking with Margaery between sets, she looked a good deal more relaxed.

What was it that Margaery had said earlier? That Miss Stark didn’t specifically mistrust them, that she was always afraid? If it was true, it must be a terrible way to live. Not entirely unmerited, though, if Oberyn's suspicions were correct. 

When the time for supper drew closer, Garlan asked Miss Tarth to dance— Willas had already asked Miss Sand for the honor of escorting her to the meal. She could not sit with Oberyn, lest they be seen as neglecting their guests, and Willas knew many who might offer to accompany her would not do so with the best of intentions. Garlan must have thought to do the same for Miss Tarth, Willas thought as he watched them dance. This dance was not as spirited, and Miss Tarth moved slowly, awkwardly, a grimace painted on her face the entire time— but she looked grateful to not have to walk in to supper alone.

The spread was diverse and reflected the breadth of Oberyn’s travels. Many guests found the spice too much and stuck to the more familiar dishes, but Willas noticed that further down the table, Miss Arya stubbornly tried everything Lord Dayne offered her, even as he slowly gave her more and more spice.

Miss Stark’s expression never wavered as she spent the meal in Lord Baelish’s company, but something in her bearing spoke of a deep, tired exasperation.

“He’s danced with her twice,” he commented to Miss Sand.

“You’ve noticed — I thought you weren’t interested in her,” she teased.

“I’m— that’s not what I’m talking about,” Willas protested. “He’s old enough to be her father.”

“And she doesn’t look well pleased to be sitting with him. Not as she would enjoy sitting with you,” Miss Sand said, raising her wine glass to her lips. “I can tell.”

“You’ve never seen us anywhere near each other,” he said.

“No, but I see the way she looks at you, when you’re not watching.”

He paused for a moment, put his fork back down on his plate, debating whether or not he should turn his head.

Miss Sand tsk-ed. “You’ve missed the moment; now she’s trying to get him to stop touching her arm, without actually saying anything.”

Willas looked then — Miss Stark’s expression had tightened, just slightly, and she edged further away from Lord Baelish whenever he looked away from her. He didn’t appear to have noticed.

“Perhaps you should go rescue her, after the meal is over?” Miss Sand suggested.

Miss Stark was perfectly capable of rescuing herself, Willas learned. He got himself trapped into conversation with Lord Baelish, while Miss Stark was nowhere to be found.

But she caught his eye as she wound her way through all the people — and Lord Baelish turned too, when he saw that something had caught his attention.

"Beautiful, isn't she?" he said, and Willas had to acknowledge that. "Her mother is a dear friend of mine. They look so alike, but — and I hate to say so — it's a pity she doesn't take after her mother in character."

"What do you mean?" he asked. That was a strange thing to say — especially of the daughter of a friend.

"You're an intelligent man; I'm sure you've noticed. Falsehoods come to her as easily as breathing. Still, she is beautiful. Some shallow men may still value her for that alone." Lord Baelish gave a wry smile. "And there is that manner about her — she is not brazen, but she has a way of making a man feel important."

He watched as, across the room, Miss Stark strode up to Loras, taking his arm, whispering something in his ear.

_Oh,_ Willas thought, watching them go to dance. _Oh,_ he thought again when, after the dance, they slipped away into the other room together, still whispering.

Loras might not be interested, but if Miss Stark was— well. It wasn’t anything he hadn’t expected, if he was really honest with himself. He let out a breath he’d been holding for far too long and headed off in the other direction.

As he passed through the room, Oberyn stopped him with a hand on his arm and a grin on his face. “Ellaria says you’re planning to talk to Miss Stark? Finally.”

“No,” Willas said, subdued. “She’s just a bit of a flirt — it was silly of me to think anything else.”

He pushed past and went to the drawing room, where gentlemen were playing cards.

A while later, Oberyn entered and sat down at Willas’s side.

“I just danced with her and she refused to flirt with me. I fear she has irreparably damaged my pride; I like to think I’m quite charming.”

Willas was not reassured. “So she’s interested in my brother, then. Wonderful.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you can’t tell, I am ALL ABOUT that whole lacy bralette thing, that was a fantastic trend. Actually, I just like lace. On everything. 
> 
> Here are some fun facts about Regency balls:
> 
> \- these things went pretty late. They would have a sit down “supper” about halfway through, which I understand was usually about midnight. (Christ, this makes me feel old. How boring do you have to be to be like “oh man I don’t think I could party hard enough to keep up with Jane Austen” because that is totally me.)
> 
> \- you’re not really supposed to dance with the same person more than twice. Twice even indicates a lot of interest. BUT… if you’re a lady, you’re not really allowed to say no to anyone either. If you turn down a dance, you’re not supposed to dance the rest of the night. 
> 
> \- a lot of conflicting information about actual dances. I hope I didn't fuck it up too badly, sorry if I did. I saw somewhere that the first dance was usually a minuet, and it was supposed to be fairly easy? That is the only specific name I am ever going to use, because idk what is going on.
> 
> \- whoever you dance with right before dinner is also your dinner partner - again, you're not really supposed to say no. POOR SANSA
> 
> \- otherwise, I found some slightly conflicting information about dinner seatings? Some people really rigidly conformed to rank (think P&P when Lydia got married and came back and was like “guess what Jane I get your place at the table now”). Some people were more freeform, but in either case, you weren’t supposed to sit directly next to anyone you knew too well (think P&P when Lady Catherine was like “Mr Collins, you can’t sit next to your wife, MOVE”). I guess it was seen as anti-social? 
> 
> \- dinner was served in two courses, but there were a shitton of dishes in each course. You were kind of stuck with whatever was placed near you, though, unless you felt like being a pain and asking a footman to pass you something from the other end of the table. Apparently some hosts were kind of passive-aggressive by the arrangement of the food. 
> 
> \- ladies weren’t allowed to serve themselves. Gentlemen around them were supposed to serve them food/pour wine/etc. So I guess you’ve just gotta hope that whoever you’re sitting next to is paying attention? 
> 
> Anyway. Thank y’all again for the comments, you’re wonderful :)


	10. Sansa 6

 

When supper had finished, Sansa rejoiced that Lord Baelish couldn't ask her to dance again without it being unseemly. Not that she trusted that alone would dissuade him— she should still find ways to occupy herself, so as not to be cornered. She slipped away into the ballroom when he was distracted for just a moment, and saw—

Ser Arys Oakheart, marching straight towards her.

No— not him. He had always tried to be kind, as kind as he was allowed, but still— why did she have to see him again? Why tonight?

She slipped through a cluster of passing guests, falling in ahead of two ladies with linked arms. He could not come after her without causing a scene — for now. She should still find some other form of escape.

She looked around hurriedly, trying to find someone she knew. There was Arianne — no, she had no idea, and Sansa couldn't explain. All around her — people who had stood by and smiled and remained willfully blind while Joffrey was being Joffrey.

But there— she recognized light brown waves of hair ahead in the crowd. Her heart picked up; she took a fortifying breath. This would reveal far, far too much, but — she glanced behind her. Ser Arys was still looking, getting closer. She had no choice.

"Mr— oh, Mr. Loras. I'm sorry to have to ask, but could you hide me for a moment?" she asked, stepping around him and turning. He was tall enough that she could keep an eye over his shoulder and still be mostly hidden.

"A suitor being too persistent?" he asked. "Is it Baelish?"

"Not just now, no," she said. "Is he being that obvious?" She was a little surprised that Loras had noticed — he was always polite, but she hadn't thought him much interested in gossip, or in her.

"Yes," he said, glancing over his shoulder. "If not him, then who?"

"Not a suitor, exactly," she hedged, and flinched closer to him as Ser Arys turned.

Loras stepped a little closer to her and turned to look. "Ser Arys? What does _he_ want with you? It's as if no one cares for the sanctity of vows anymore."

"I don't think _that's_ what he wants. Not me, anyway," she said, remembering how close he and Arianne had been earlier.

"Then what on earth does he want?"

"I don't know, and I don't want to know."

He turned back and saw her face. His eyes flickered over her briefly, his expression becoming subdued. "Dance with me. He can't come near you out there."

She nodded, and he led her out onto the dance floor. He was right — no one would break in to interrupt them here. It was calming, the safety and the rhythm of it. Her body knew the steps so well that she didn't have to think, and there was a mindlessness to it that allowed her to lose herself in the music.

Mr. Loras didn't seem to mind that she made no conversation during the dance, but once it had finished, he took her arm again.

"My sister is to be protected by that man, once she is married. Will you tell me why you are afraid of him?" he asked.

She hesitated, but Mr. Loras needed to know something, if he was to be the one closest to the situation. "Not here," she said. "We'll be in the way, and people might pay attention."

They went through to the parlor, where dancers rested their feet and others congregated to chatter — they stood in groups and pairs all over the room, and as long as they spoke quietly, no one would pay them any mind.

There was a certain privacy, anonymity, that came along with large parties; people cared about nothing outside their circles, and there was always someone more outrageous who would provide the gossips with fodder.

She took a moment to gather her breath and her wits. "Knights are required to take a number of vows," she started to say. "Not many are knighted anymore, but the Kingsguard are. They have yet more vows to make, and there are points where those vows are in conflict with each other. Every one of them made their choice." She took a deep breath and continued. "Ser Arys included."

"You disagree with his choice?" Mr. Loras asked.

"I think it was unconscionable."

"He did it," he glanced around, "by command?"

"Yes," she said.

"I take your meaning," he said, his mouth set in a firm line.

"I fear that, by being close to him, Margaery may be in danger," she whispered. "I have told you so that you may protect her. You cannot tell anyone I have said anything. Promise me that."

"On my honor," he said, grim.

She sat out the rest of the dance, retreating to a mostly deserted corridor — an amorous couple was a little farther down, but they had not noticed her — and focusing on her breathing.

But as soon as she returned and entered the ballroom, Prince Oberyn stood before her. "Might I request the honor of a dance?" he said.

He said nothing out of the ordinary during the dance, but his inflection, the depth of his voice, the way he almost purred his words; the way he led the dance with his entire body, guiding her through the unfamiliar Dornish steps; the way he looked at her out of the corner of his eye every time he made a turn; the way he lowered his face towards hers, just slightly, every time they touched; his overwhelming _intensity_ — but she shot him one particularly frosty look and he immediately backed off. No more suggestion to his voice, no more lingering touches; the heat of his gaze on her cooled.

She was breathless by the end of it, regardless, and in desperate need of a drink. Now she understood why ladies spoke of him with a certain tone in their voices...

His attention was flattering, not hungry like some other men's. Unlike Lord Baelish, she had no doubt that Oberyn would not persist.

She fanned herself as she walked — almost as if she had read her mind, Miss Sand was taking her arm and offering a glass of wine.

"Thank you," Sansa said, taking it. Had she been watching her dance with Prince Oberyn? Sansa's stomach cringed — she had no idea what it had looked like from the outside.

They watched the dance for a moment — Arya was with Lord Dayne again, and he was teaching her the steps; though it was quick, there was a pattern to this one and Arya was catching on, the curve of her lips turning more and more confident.

But Miss Sand watched Prince Oberyn. He was dancing with Arianne now, both of them lively, flamboyant — and likely the only pair in the room who collectively knew what they were doing.

"He is overwhelming, isn't he?" Miss Sand asked. "Breathtaking."

This was a trap, it had to be — only Sansa didn't know what the correct answer was. She drew a long breath through her nose, searching for words.

"I would not be offended if you were interested in him," Miss Sand assured her. "I am not jealous over that sort of thing — there is so much beauty in the world, so many pleasures. I have never wanted to limit him, and he does not want to limit me. We have no doubts in each other — there is no room for that. I know he will never set me aside."

Sansa nodded. She thought she understood what Miss Sand was talking about — she didn't think she personally could withstand that sort of arrangement, but where was Miss Sand going with this?

"If you want to share his bed," Miss Sand said, "You have my blessing."

Sansa choked on her wine. As she coughed through it, heat rose and bloomed through her chest, her neck, her face. "No," she managed to get out. "I'm flattered, but no— Not that he's not handsome, or charming— but no— I don't want him like _that_."

"Some part of him will be disappointed," Miss Sand said lightly. Something in her bearing felt like laughter. "But I suppose you are interested in another?"

"Yes," Sansa rushed to say, feeling relieved for only a moment— then she felt she had said too much.

"I shall occupy myself with guessing who," Miss Sand said, drifting away.

It took all of her willpower to suppress the groan that wanted to find its way out. Now Miss Sand would be watching.

The dance was ending, and Arya was parting ways with Lord Dayne. Sansa hurried over, in desperate need of more normal conversation.

“That was your second set with Lord Dayne,” she said, as she grew close. “Is there something you should be telling me?”

Arya rolled her eyes. “You've danced twice with Lord Baelish, should I be asking you the same?” But then she groaned and said of Lord Dayne: “He’s stupid, is what he is. He told me how beautiful I am, as if I don’t know better. I know he’s lying, and I know _why_.”

“Arya, you _are_ beautiful. Have you seen yourself?” Sansa said, in disbelief. There had been a phase, when growing from girl to woman, where she had looked awkward, but everyone had that. Arya was now very striking — she had grown into her face, her complexion was all contrasts between dark hair and fair skin, and her eyes were so expressive. Dancing when she laughed, sparkling when she was overcome with excitement, smoldering like embers when she was angered.

“Now _you’re_ lying.”

“I’m not!”

“It’s not what you used to say,” Arya muttered to the floor.

“I—” Then Sansa remembered. “Oh, Arya. I never meant it— I’m so sorry. It’s no excuse, but you used to frustrate me so much, and I would say unkind things. Untrue things.”

Arya looked up at her, uncertain. "It's silly, anyway. Beauty isn't all that matters."

“No, it's not. But you _are_ beautiful and clever and strong, and Lord Dayne would be lucky to have you.”

But that made her frown. "I don't see why we have to marry," Arya said. "Why it's so urgent. What Mother and Father had was good, but— How do you know if you've got it right? What if he won't let you _be_ , and then it's too late, and you're stuck with him forever?"

Sometimes Sansa wondered that, herself. As much as some part of her heart still dreamed of the perfect love, like in the songs, she knew that it wasn't something real or attainable. Nothing in life was perfect, and so many people kept their hate, their violence, hidden until they were behind closed doors. It would take a very special man to tempt her into marriage. He would have to be gentle, and compassionate, and love her so deeply that he would never want to hurt her.

Her mind jumped to Mr. Tyrell for just a second before she remembered. _No, he doesn't want the burden a wife would bring._ He didn't know who she truly was, and she couldn't show him — how could he love her without that?

"As much as I'm certain Robb will provide for us if we need it, he'll have his own family someday." Roslin Frey would finally join his life, and he would surely love her — he had a big heart. "He must give his attention to them — his wife, his children."

"But why can't we just provide for ourselves?" Arya's brow crinkled, not with confusion, but with frustration.

"I wish it was different," was all Sansa could think to say.

"What, you don't want a fancy wedding and a handsome husband and perfect little babies?"

"Only if it's the right man," Sansa answered. "I'm not that girl anymore."

"No," Arya agreed. Her voice had gone soft. "You're not."

She reached out and squeezed Arya's hand just once, gently, and she let her, looking up with the smallest smile.

Then, Sansa overheard a snippet of conversation — someone talking about _Miss Tarth._

She whirled to look and caught a glimpse of the tallest woman she'd ever seen towering above the crowd, dressed in men's trousers and a flowing blouse.

“Arya,” she whispered, watching the woman awkwardly cross the room. “Go introduce yourself.”

"But that would be very improper," Arya said, rolling her eyes. "Anyway, we've already been introduced. She _fences_."

"What? How did you meet her?"

"Mr. Tyrell brought her around earlier," Arya said. "But never mind that, do you think I could convince Robb to let me learn? To fence?"

"If you go invite her to dinner, I'll make it happen," Sansa promised.

"Why do _you_ care?" Arya asked, but she relented when Sansa fixed her with a stern look. "Fine, I'm going."

“I thought you didn’t know anything about Brienne Tarth,” came a voice from behind.

The room around them slowed, and Sansa turned to find Mr. Tyrell standing there, looking at her speculatively.

Her heart picked up its pace. "I don’t. I remembered you had mentioned her, so I started listening to the talk around town.”

"Still, why wouldn't you go yourself to extend the invitation?"

She hesitated, searching for a reason. She couldn't very well say that she was trying to avoid his notice.

"Why don't I make the introduction directly?" he asked, extending his arm for her to take.

She cursed internally _,_ but she took it anyway.

They lapsed into silence as they passed through the room, but when they paused a moment to dodge a stumbling drunken gentleman, Mr. Tyrell decided to speak again.

“If I were you, I wouldn’t get terribly attached to Loras. He’s quite in love, and has been for years now.”

“I’m happy for him, then,” Sansa said, wondering why he had brought it up. “Oh, but he’s to be in the Kingsguard. In some ways, that must be a disappointment to him."

“It’s no real disappointment,” Mr. Tyrell said, “They wouldn’t have been able to marry in any case.”

A woman below their station, then. Sansa could understand that; love happened when and where it wanted to, but she couldn’t picture Lord Mace Tyrell’s ambition giving way for a common woman. It was sad, but it wasn’t unusual.

“I suppose it’s none of my business, but I wonder why you hide parts of yourself like this,” he said.

She looked up at him, and found his face still. She couldn't read the emotion behind it. “I don't know what you mean," she said, not entirely sure what he was referring to.

He sighed. "Of course you don't."

As they approached, Arya looked at both of them, exasperated. “Sansa, she won’t agree to come to dinner unless the invitation comes from _the lady of the house_."

“I don’t want to impose,” Miss Tarth said, shifting from foot to foot. 

“Please come to dinner, sometime next week?” Sansa asked. "We would be glad to have you. I think Arya rather admires you already." Arya shot a glare her way. "You fence, I hear?"

"Yes," Miss Tarth answered, but she held herself stiffly, as if she expected Sansa to leap forward and bite.

But Sansa did not know how to put her at ease without revealing more than she would like to Mr. Tyrell. "I know little about the subject, I'm afraid," she said, trying to inject friendliness into her voice, her smile.

It did not seem to be enough.

Mr. Tyrell spoke up. "She beat Loras last time they went," he told them — Arya perked up and looked at Miss Tarth with interest. "And she held her own against Ser Jaime Lannister."

Miss Tarth reddened under the attention, and Sansa recognized the look on Arya's face — wonder that had not been there in years, since before they ever left Winterfell.

"Can we come see you practice sometime?" Arya asked.

"Arya," Sansa said under her breath, elbowing her. "Don't invite yourself places."

Arya huffed, but Miss Tarth said, "It's no trouble — but you might be disappointed. It wasn't as impressive as Mr. Tyrell makes it seem."

"I'm only repeating what Garlan told me," Willas said. _Gods,_ he had a beautiful smile — it overtook his whole face, made him lose the murky atmosphere that had covered him as they walked over.

"You'll beat him though? Ser Jaime Lannister," Arya asked.

"I intend to," Miss Tarth said.

"Good," Arya nodded. "He's an _ass._ "

"Arya—"

"It's true, he was rude to Jon—"

"That's not the point." Sansa lowered her voice. "Look around. Remember what I told you?"

She could see Arya grit her teeth and take a deep breath. "Forgive me; I spoke out of turn," she spat out. "I'm going to find Robb."

"I apologize," Sansa said to Miss Tarth and Mr. Tyrell. "I've been trying to impart that there are some things one shouldn't say in company."

"But you don't disagree?" Mr. Tyrell asked, a touch of humor to his voice.

She couldn't answer that — Jaime Lannister _was_ an ass — but she let her mouth turn up at the corners, and changed the subject.

"Thank you for offering to let us watch you practice, Miss Tarth. Arya's always had an interest, and little opportunity to do anything about it."

“It will be a pleasure," she said. "I know it’s not— it's not easy to be a girl who’s— well, different. If there’s anything I might do towards that end…”

“I didn’t understand that until recently," Sansa said, conscious of Mr. Tyrell's presence. She would have to choose her words carefully. “She's my sister, and I want her to be happy. But I’m afraid I have a limited understanding of what would make her happy.”

"It's impossible to truly know another's mind," Mr. Tyrell said, and she felt his gaze on her.

Her skin warmed and she could not get enough air; not the panicked breathlessness that came with her nightmares, but something far more pleasant. They had not moved, but it was as if the space between them had melted away. She ached to close the distance, to touch him — but she could not. She bit her lip instead, hoping the pain would remind her of who she was, where she was, what she could not do.

It didn't help much.

"There was something I wanted to ask you," he said, tilting his head just slightly as he looked at her.

She forced herself to look at his eyes instead of his mouth — that actually wasn't much better. His eyes were a shade darker than Margaery's, more amber than honey, and when they focused on her like this, she felt at once light and free.

"Yes?" she asked.

"Your sister says you might know a Mr. Stone who lives in Wintertown?"

Her next breath was like ice water filling her lungs.

"Oh yes, Mr. Stone," said Miss Tarth.

"Why do you want to know?" she asked, dread sinking into every one of her bones.

"I write to him," Mr. Tyrell said. "I've become curious."

"I really shouldn't tell you anything he hasn't said himself," she said, grasping for reasons to end this conversation. "He's a very private man."

"So you do know him?" he asked.

"Yes," she was forced to say.

"We had wondered," Miss Tarth said. "How is his marriage? Is everything… peaceful?"

Another test. "He's not married," she said, struggling to remember what she had written. "He lives with his sister."

"Not married?" Miss Tarth asked, frowning. "Was he ever married? Widowed, or divorced?"

"I don't believe so," Sansa said. "Why do you ask?"

"Only curious," Mr. Tyrell said. He smiled, but it wasn't the same one as before, the one that lit his face like the dawn.

She felt compelled to apologize — for what? — but she held her tongue.

“Sansa?” Arya was returning. “I can’t find Robb.”

“I’ll help you look," she said, now eager for an excuse to leave. "Thank you, Miss Tarth, Mr. Tyrell.” Sansa curtsied and, perhaps unwisely, met his eyes one last time before she followed Arya into the courtyard.

She let out a long sigh once they were away and glanced back, just the once. He was still watching them leave; she flinched and turned her attention back to where they were walking.

Arya mimicked Sansa’s voice. “Is there something you should be telling me about Mr. Tyrell?”

“Not now, Arya," she sighed, "let’s find Robb.”

It was getting late, and guests were starting to filter out into carriages. Despite the thinning crowds, Robb was nowhere in sight. Sansa did a circle through the courtyards while Arya went to check all the balconies. Nothing. Sansa poked her head into the drawing room, where some of the men were playing cards, and didn’t see him. But she did see—

“Mr. Greyjoy — have you seen Robb? Arya and I can’t find him.”

“Not since…” Mr. Greyjoy thought back. “Earlier,” he concluded. He stood up, unsteadily. “But I’ll help you look, if you like.”

“That won’t be necessary, Mr. Greyjoy.”

The voice made Sansa freeze. She turned slowly, and Ser Arys Oakheart was standing there.

“I’d be happy to help the lady look for her brother. I’m sure we’d hate to disturb you.”

The way he spoke of her as if she wasn’t there made her skin crawl. _No_ , she tried to tell Mr. Greyjoy with her eyes. _Don’t leave me with him_.

But Mr. Greyjoy didn’t notice. “Of course — if I see Robb, I’ll tell him you’re looking for him,” he said, sinking back down into his chair.

Ser Arys offered her his arm, and she had no choice but to accept it. Each of her limbs felt leaden, yet she was moving somehow — floating? She counted her steps — _sixteen, seventeen, eighteen_ — though she felt she was walking on the air. Walking on bubbles that her heavy heels must break, and then she would be falling, falling, falling.

_Forty-two, forty-three, forty-four_ … There were words — he was saying words — but they didn’t make any sense. She tried to think of them one at a time, but no matter how she tried to hold them in her head they kept slipping away and she could not string them together.

She smiled, telling the muscles in her cheeks to smile — _eighty-six — smile — eighty-seven_ — and it took all of her effort.

All of the people in the ballroom were figurines dancing in a music box, mechanical; their chatter had disappeared, and the music was far away, drifting to her from across the courtyard, somewhere that was not here, somewhere this was not happening.

They weren't real. They weren't _real._ None of this was real—

_A hundred and—_ They’d stopped. Hands were touching hers, and she came back to herself with a shudder.

She did not know where she was. How were they here? Only an instant had passed—

They were alone, she realized — she did not know where he had taken her.

He was holding her hands, and she looked down at where they touched. He was saying words, but again they were slipping away — it was like she was a child again, trying to hold too many marbles in her tiny hands, dropping them all over the floor. Watching them roll away. She looked past him. There were lanterns out there, in the sky, and they were very pretty.

She wanted to float up and touch them.

“Miss Stark?” he was saying.

That was a name. That was her name.

“Yes?” she asked. Her tongue felt fat and sluggish as the word tried to worm its way out.

“Miss Stark? Are you alright?”

“I don’t know what that means,” she said, wobbling.

His arms moved up to steady her — she saw it happening slowly, yet she could not back away, could not escape. His hands grasped her upper arms, and she remembered other times he had held her there—

Hands that bruised, hands that held her still while the others—

No.

She wrenched herself away from his grip — he was strong, it had never happened before — his face, which she had once thought so handsome, twisted in distress—

Her back hit something, and her hands went to grab onto it. A railing. She looked around. Were they on one of the balconies?

“Miss Stark,” he said again, coming towards her.

“No,” she managed to say.

He stopped. That had not happened before, either.

“I did not mean to alarm you,” he said. “I only wanted—” He stopped, went to his knees before her. “I came to beg your forgiveness.”

She just stared at him. He wasn’t joking, she could see that much.

“What I did— I will carry that with me until the end of my days.”

“So will I.”

His jaw worked as he looked up at her. “Tell me what I can do to make it right.”

“You can’t.”

He did not move. He did not know what to say.

Neither did she.

She did not know how long they stayed there before the curtains moved aside and Arya appeared. It was a moment while she took in the scene, and then she stalked forward. Mr. Tyrell was behind her — of course he was. The gods seemed determined to show her to him at her worst.

“Go,” Arya ordered Ser Arys. He didn’t move.

“Get away from her.” That was Mr. Tyrell, and there was steel in his voice that she had never heard before.

She shivered.

One by one, Arya pried her fingers off the railing, while she watched. Mr. Tyrell was saying something, but his voice was different — clipped, angry. Had she done something wrong? She felt her breathing start to rise _. No._ She had done _something_ to make him angry and she didn't understand what— Oh _no,_ she'd been alone here with Ser Arys, how this must disgust him—

Arya's arms wrapped around her, breaking that train of thought. She was warm. After a moment, Sansa returned the embrace, and when her eyes focused again, Ser Arys was gone.

"Breathe with me," Arya said. "You're safe. Nothing's going to happen."

She focused on the breath, the lungs expanding, the calm rhythm of it. As the tension left her, exhaustion settled in. It was a good thing Arya was holding her up, or she feared she might stumble.

“We’re going home,” she said. “Robb can figure himself out.”

“Let me walk you to your coach,” Mr. Tyrell said. He had maneuvered his coat off and passed it to Arya. “I’ll tell your brother that you’ve gone home, once I find him.”

Arya threw the coat over Sansa’s shoulders. It was warm, too. She pulled it closer around herself, and when she inhaled — was this what he smelled like? It was like a bakery — all kinds of spices. Cinnamon.

Cinnamon was good.

Mr. Tyrell led them down a different hallway that brought them outside without passing back through the ballroom. He had seen her like this — at least no one else would. That was a little thing to be grateful for.

Sansa settled herself in the coach and spoke to the driver through the window as Mr. Tyrell handed Arya up. “We can’t find my brother, would you come back for him once you’ve driven us home?”

“Lord Stark?” the driver asked. “He won’t be here anymore, I took him away early this evening.”

“Was he not feeling well?” Why would he have left without saying anything?

“He seemed well enough,” the man said, suggestively. “He left here with a young lady. They wanted to go up to the Sept.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Halloween! Posting while waiting up for trick-or-treaters. Hope you've all had a good holiday :)
> 
> Thank you so much everyone, as always. 
> 
> Hope you can continue to be patient with me — lately ideas have been grabbing me and running away. 
> 
> I’ve mentioned that I wrote a full first draft of this story, right? You might not have noticed, but I've been sneakily upping the chapter total pretty much since I started posting... It started out as 23, and now, well… I figured out something that was really sketchy in the first draft and it's adding four chapters, probably? But I still have to write that, and rewrite everything else I've been planning to rewrite, lol. 
> 
> I'm also working on a few other things — hope to be able to post some of it soon.


	11. Sansa 7

 

Sansa had exchanged ball gown for nightgown, but even though she was exhausted, she couldn't sleep. All of the dancing had left her tired in body, and the fear Ser Arys had inspired left her mind fatigued.

Still — _what did Robb think he was doing?_ She wrapped herself in a shawl and climbed down the stairs. The parlor gave an excellent view of the walk up to the house, so she settled into a sofa there. Moonlight illuminated the yard enough that she would be able to see any figures walking up to the door.

Who on earth would Robb go down to the Sept with? She couldn't think of a single woman Robb had interest in. Was their driver mistaken or lying? Should she have sent someone out to look for him? Roslin Frey was still in the Riverlands — she had been at her home throughout the engagement. Robb couldn't be foolish enough to set her aside?

The scrape of the large, heavy doors woke her some time later — she must have dozed off. She leapt from the sofa, her head still muzzy with sleep, and hurried to the foyer. There was Robb's silhouette in the moonlight — and a woman's, small and slight.

"Robb— where the hell have you been?" Her voice came out raspy from fatigue and worry.

"Sansa?" he asked. "What are you doing up— This isn't like you."

"I didn't think this was like you, either," she said. "Who is this? Are congratulations in order?"

"This is Jeyne," he introduced. Sansa could not see her face in the darkness, but the figure curtsied.

"Hello," came a soft voice.

"My new wife. And this is my sister, Sansa."

She didn't curtsy back — it was rude, but she was too tired to care. "Congratulations," she said. "Robb, we need to talk. Alone."

"Just a moment," he sighed. "Let me show Jeyne upstairs, and I'll be right back down."

"Fine." Sansa paced back into the parlor, sat down, but couldn't stay sitting. She was filled with a nervous energy— but no, that wasn't exactly right. She wasn't nervous. She was enraged.

"What the _hell_ , Robb," she said as he came back down, illuminated by a candle.

"What has gotten into you?" he asked. "You never speak like this."

"What has gotten into _you?_ " she snapped. "You've just broken an engagement — Walder Frey will be furious — and for what?"

"We fell in love," he said, boldly, defiantly.

"Love at first sight is something out of a fairy tale, Robb. It's not enough to break an engagement over."

"I've never even met Roslin Frey," he protested. "Lord Walder keeps putting me off. It was an alliance but—"

"An _important_ alliance," Sansa said. "You're Lord Stark, you have a duty to your people — you don't have the luxury of deciding to put her aside just because you haven't met her. Little enough support comes North. He can cut off an important trade route, if provoked—"

"I know," he said. The flickering candlelight sent dancing shadows over his face that made his eyes look sunken, old. "I don't have an excuse for that. I'll make it right with Lord Frey — I don't know how, but I will. It's just—" He made a fist, dropped it onto his knee. "Everything is so dark here. The plotting— It's impossible to know who I can trust. She made that lighter—"

"Her reputation is compromised, isn't it?"

"Yes," Robb said, his mouth tight. "I couldn't just leave it like that."

She squeezed her eyes shut. " _Damn it_ , Robb."

"What did you even break your engagement for?" he asked. His voice carried a hint of accusation, and she froze. "Father said it was important, but no one ever said _what._ "

"It wasn't even remotely the same thing," Sansa said.

"Yet you won't say."

"It was dangerous." She folded her hands together so they wouldn't shake. "The Lannisters are dangerous, you must know that."

His jaw set, and he stilled. "How much do you know?"

"More than you do."

"What have you done about it — have you been speaking to Prince Oberyn?" His voice was not her brother's anymore, it was Lord Stark's.

"What is there to do about it?" she said with a shake of her head. "And we danced together, is all."

"Stay away from him," Robb ordered. "You won't go there any longer."

She couldn't believe it. "Now you're telling me what to do? Princess Arianne and Miss Sand are my friends— you want me to offend them?"

"Have them over here as much as you want. But you won't go to his house again."

"I never thought you would do this," she said quietly.

"I'm allowed to— I'm the head of this household." But then his bearing softened slightly. "I want you to be safe. That is all."

"You think Prince Oberyn will hurt me?" That, she couldn't believe. He was intense, he was shrouded in rumor, she knew he could be a dangerous man — but he was respectful and she felt no hint of ill intent.

"It's not what he might do to you. It's what he might drag you into. It's my duty to protect you."

"I can decide for myself what is too dangerous," she said. "I know that well enough."

"You'll not see him again," he said, and his word was final.

* * *

 

She rose late the next morning — as she began to move about the room, stretching out soreness and nursing her aching head, Alys brought a breakfast tray in.

"Thank you," Sansa said, glad she didn't have to go downstairs to what would likely be a trying encounter with Robb and Jeyne.

"I don't mean to gossip, but I think you ought to know," Alys said as Sansa picked at the food. "The whole town's talking about it — your brother and Jeyne Westerling."

"So Westerling's her name?" Sansa asked. " _Was_ her name," she corrected herself.

Alys nodded. "They say she's too low for him, they think there was, well, a _reason_ they rushed and eloped. And they say that Lord Walder Frey is furious."

Sansa groaned. "It's nothing I hadn't expected," she said.

"But—" Alys said, and hesitated. "They're also talking about you."

Sansa froze with her fork halfway to her lips. Someone had seen her with Ser Arys. They had left upstairs, for that balcony, together and alone. _Oh._ She felt herself slowly spiraling down through the floor, through the ground, towards a frozen hell. To have her name connected to Ser Arys, of all people, in such a manner — and it wouldn't be _his_ reputation that would suffer, despite his position on the Kingsguard. No, she would bear that alone.

"Of course they're talking about your dress," Alys was saying. "But that's not so bad, some of my friends in other houses have already been sent out to buy lace. The bad thing is," she stopped. "Well, they're saying that you were very forward with Mr. Loras Tyrell."

Sansa set her fork back down on the plate with a _clink_ and laughed. Was that all?

"Only," Alys continued, once Sansa had quieted. "Some think certain members of the family had other hopes for you— People are saying you caused great offense, and you're sure to be disappointed when Mr. Loras joins the Kingsguard. Some of them are very unkind about it."

"Why on earth would that cause offense?" Sansa said. She didn't want to be unkind, but— "Surely that couldn't be the most noteworthy thing that happened last night."

"It wasn't, but — you don't know?" Alys met her eyes through the mirror. "People want to know _everything_ about you. You don't give them much, and that just feeds it. People ask me all sorts of things—"

"And what have you told them?" Sansa cut her off, and she set her hands down to keep them from shaking.

"Nothing important— you're fond of lemons and often have it in your perfume, you sometimes sing but I've never seen you touch the pianoforte, you write a lot of letters—" She looked guilty for a second. "I did tell Lady Stokeworth's maid some of the details of the furniture you just ordered."

"I couldn't care less about the furniture," Sansa said. "You haven't told anyone who I write to?" She was careful to keep her writing desk tidy and her papers hidden away. Any letter that could be suspect she posted herself, dropping in at local post houses when she was making visits across town. But if Alys was determined to find out, she likely could—

"I don't know who you write to," Alys said. "I only see you writing often."

"You'll keep my correspondence and conversations private," she said. "Other little things, I don't mind you telling." Some details would get out, no matter what she did, and perhaps it would keep some curiosities sated. And if _she_ wanted to know anything, Alys must be known as a reputable source of information. "If anyone asks you anything unusual, I want to know."

"Of course, Miss," Alys said. She looked as if she didn't want to speak, but hesitantly continued. "I didn't know if I should tell— it was a strange question, but I didn't have anything _to_ tell him—" she bit her lip.

"What is it?"

"Lord Baelish, when he was over for dinner. He wanted to know if you had any contact with Mr. Tyrell, if you had any regard for him. I told him I didn't think you'd met him more than once or twice. I don't know why he would want to know, or why he would want to know from _me_ — it's something anyone could have told him."

"I suppose if I had a secret romance, he'd want to be the first to know." She twisted to stretch her back and to meet Alys's eyes. "Thank you, Alys. If he asks again, tell him—" Tell him to go to hell. "Tell him that I go to see Margaery, perhaps I run into him then, but you don't know for certain."

Sansa thought she knew why Lord Baelish was asking, and she knew why he had suspicions about Mr. Tyrell. But in the real world, outside of articles and covert identities, they did not have much connection—

Oh no. Mr. Tyrell. _He_ had seen her with Ser Arys.

Well, she thought, at least any curiosity he had harbored for her would now be put to its grave.

But that didn't seem to quite be the case, and it turned out she hadn't offended _all_ of the Tyrells.

Margaery visited as early as was proper, bringing with her a confectionery box. Sansa called for tea, and they ate the lemon cakes together.

"Willas said you were taken ill last night, and might appreciate a friend."

"Oh," Sansa remembered. "I still have his coat." While Alys went up to fetch it, she wondered how much she should say.

No one could know about Ser Arys. If anyone suspected that— Mr. Tyrell knowing was already too much.

"He was very kind," she decided on. "I'm sorry he had to see me like that."

"He said he doesn't think any less of you. And that he won't tell anyone. He made me promise I would tell you that," Margaery said. She studied Sansa's face and asked, "You weren't really ill, were you? From the way Willas said it, I thought he was evading. What really happened?"

"He rescued me from a man's unwanted attention," Sansa said. That was hopefully vague enough. "I am very grateful."

Sansa thought she was starting to understand Margaery's expressions — they were subtle, but there were still hints. Her brows tensed just slightly as she reached out to take her hand, but she still spoke gently. "This man — he didn't force you to do anything?"

"No," Sansa said, "nothing like that."

Margaery nodded, but the tension was still in her face. "If anything did happen, it is not your fault. I would never blame you for it, or think any less of you. Nor would he."

"Truly, nothing happened. He only frightened me badly, and I'm afraid I wasn't very," she searched for a word, "coherent, after your brother made him go away."

"Fear isn't a thing we can control. Anyone would be in a bit of shock, I think," she said. Her face cleared up, and her soft smile had returned. "Willas really wouldn't let that color his opinion of you. He didn't say it in so many words, but he likes you. Rather a lot."

Sansa's heart picked up its pace, and she pressed her lips together to suppress the foolish smile that wanted to break free. It was everything she shouldn't hope for.

"That's very flattering," she said, and took a sip of tea.

Margaery embraced her as she took her leave, and Sansa handed back Mr. Tyrell's coat. Part of her was sad to see it go, but she shouldn't keep any reminders of Mr. Tyrell around. It was impossible — the idle fantasies she had entertained were just that, and dwelling upon him could only hurt her.

"Tell him thank you for me?" Sansa asked. "And— wait."

Flowers in a vase upon the sideboard caught her eye. She ran her fingers over the petals, searching for something appropriate. There — she plucked out a puff of white hydrangeas. They must be the last of the season.

"Would you give this to him for me?" she asked, handing over the stem of flowers. She hoped the message would get across to him — the sincerity and depth of her gratitude. That, at least, she should give him.

"Of course," Margaery said, looking pleased. "I'll see that he gets them."

* * *

 

Robb was gone frequently on Council business — and when he wasn't at the Council, he was with Walder Frey, trying to ease the insult done to his House. This left the ladies to stew at home in the discomfort of the situation. Jeyne was very sweet — meek, almost, and afraid to voice any opinion. Perhaps that was partly Sansa's fault, but she couldn't help but bristle at her presence.

 _It takes two,_ she thought, but then relented. Jeyne hadn't known about Roslin Frey, Sansa reminded herself. Robb was at fault for that one.

And Jeyne certainly had nothing to do with Robb's sudden decision to control where she was allowed to go; that was something he had never done before, and something Sansa deeply resented.

She tried to carry on as normal, endeavoring to be kinder to Jeyne, sending invitations to Princess Arianne and Miss Sand, preparing to host Miss Tarth for dinner. And slipping out at night again to retrieve one of Mr. Tyrell's letters from Lord Baelish.

It was a strange letter, one that had implications hidden between the lines, only she wasn't sure what they were.

_You have written several times on the importance of fair divorce laws, but I am afraid I didn't fully grasp your meaning until recently._

_A thought occurred to me, which I hope is wrong, but if I am correct_ — _you should know that I am, and always will be, your friend. If you feel trapped, or if there is danger, I would do everything in my power to protect you. Highgarden is always open to you, should you need it._

_Above all, I want you to be safe._

"Why would a man be concerned for a friend's safety?" she asked Jeyne one day while they sat embroidering. She was making an effort to be welcoming, to compensate for her less than warm reception. "Can you think of a reason?"

Jeyne set her needle down for a moment to think — Sansa was beginning to see that in everything she was measured and thoughtful. "If he had offended somebody—" She knew Jeyne was thinking of Robb— "Or perhaps if he thought he might do something rash."

"If there was no indication of either of those things?" Mr. Stone hadn't offended anyone out of the ordinary lately, and Sansa did not think she had given the impression of being rash.

"If he thinks something dangerous is approaching? Has someone said something to you?"

Now she had gone and planted seeds of worry. "No, nothing," Sansa said. "My mind was just wandering."

Jeyne didn't look completely convinced, but she let the subject drop.

Robb returned late that evening, after they had started preparing for bed. When Sansa looked down from the upstairs landing, she could see him trudging into his study, looking as if anchors of lead and sorrow had been tied to his boots, weighing him down.

She hesitated on the stairs a moment before following.

When she entered his office, she found him sunken deep into a chair, and just as deep into a glass of brandy.

"What's happened?" she asked.

He contemplated the glass. "I've made peace with Walder Frey."

"But that should be good — what did you have to promise him?"

"Help with a new match for Miss Roslin— Edmure has agreed to meet her, when there is the opportunity to travel."

"That doesn't sound so bad," Sansa said.

"But Lord Frey still wants to be connected to the Starks of Winterfell," he said, swirling the liquid in his glass, watching it twist and whirl. The same thing happened in Sansa's chest. "They want Arya."

It was worse than if they had wanted her. "No," she said. "She shouldn't have to—" She stopped herself. _She shouldn't have to pay for your mistakes,_ she wanted to say, but she knew those words, once spoken, could never be taken back.

It looked like Robb knew what she meant, anyway. "We all have a duty to the North. The situation gets more dire by the day—" he scrubbed a hand across his face. "I've had a letter from Jon," he said. "He says there's something in the far north. Something worse than wildlings. It was unlike him— he sounded afraid, almost. If there's any credence to it, we can't stay here — we'll leave as soon as we can after the wedding."

That didn't bring the relief Sansa had thought it would — there was a bitterness to it, too. She would be out of the Lannisters' reach, but she would also have to leave behind several budding friendships. She might be able to resume a normal correspondence with Mr. Tyrell, but Mr. Stone would never speak to him over dinner or catch glimpses of him across a crowded ballroom.

"I thought you would be happy for it," Robb said.

"I am," she said, but the words were hollow.

* * *

 

Arya had not taken the news well — she had shouted the house down when she was told. And now that Robb had decided they could not leave freely, she sat simmering with resentment through everything.

The one upside was that she didn’t scrutinize Princess Arianne's visits; now that they were not meeting alone, their conversations had become an exercise in vague, neutral wording. Sansa knew what she was needling at and tried to respond in kind.

"You must become used to the attention, my dear," the Princess said once. "You are young, beautiful, from an old name — I think it will only increase. Well behaved women rarely make a name for themselves — look at Miss Tarth."

"Not every woman wants to be under that sort of scrutiny," Sansa answered. "Miss Tarth is very brave, but there are many things to fear. A damaged reputation, the loss of friends or family..." She deliberately met Arianne's eyes. "Retaliation from enemies."

"A shame," she sighed. "If only the people would rally behind her — in Dorne, there are many. In the North, are there not some as well? The Mormont women."

"They might be respected locally, but in the rest of the kingdoms — even in some parts of the North — it is not the same."

"A shame," the Princess said again, giving her a significant look.

But as Arya's dark mood only deepened, she felt increasingly useless.

"Can they be convinced to take me instead?" she asked Robb in his study one night. Perhaps she might weather it better — this was what girls of their status were raised to do, to become wives and mothers and disappear behind their husbands' names. A Frey was a Frey, but he was no Joffrey — and there was a time when that had sounded appealing to her.

But Arya had never wanted it.

"Lord Walder seemed to indicate he thought—" He caught the look on her face and stopped prevaricating. "He thinks you're too much of a risk. One broken engagement— that's something he's very concerned about now."

Was there nothing to be done?

 _I fear that with this engagement, she will be forced to draw herself smaller and smaller to fit into their expectations; and if she doesn't conform, they will cut at her until she does,_ she wrote to Miss Tarth. _I am quite helpless to do anything about it. If you have any words of counsel_ — _how I might make this more bearable for her, though I have no power to change it_ — _I would treasure them like none other._

The next morning, they had an invitation to tea at Miss Tarth's. She kept a small house down on the Hook, conveniently located for her Council work; Sansa had never been there before, and was curious to see how she lived. It was tidy but spare— but Sansa had not thought Miss Tarth to be one for much decorating.

"You can send your driver home," Miss Tarth said as soon as they arrived. "I'll see you back after we're finished."

It was unusual, Sansa thought as Miss Tarth peered through the curtains, watching their coach disappear around the bend.

She jerked the curtains shut. "Do you still want to learn to fence?" she asked Arya.

"What? Yes—" Arya said, leaping to her feet.

"We'll keep it a secret—" Miss Tarth said to Sansa, belatedly thinking to seek some sort of permission. "If your brother doesn't want to allow it."

Arya looked between them, holding her breath—

"He doesn’t want to allow it—" With the Freys to appease, Robb was careful to avoid any hint of impropriety. But still, she had promised. "But what Robb doesn't know won't hurt him," Sansa decided, and Arya's grin looked as if it would split her face in two.

"I found some clothes that may fit," Miss Tarth said, leading the way upstairs. "We'll go out through the back, and I'll drive us over. It's a small school — Braavosi owned, down by the river — and the master has always been kind to me."

"Is he a water dancer?" came Arya's voice from the dressing room.

"I believe so," said Miss Tarth.

Arya bounded from the dressing room, the borrowed clothes large and sloppy on her small frame.

"He's a _water dancer,_ Sansa," she said, as Sansa fixed her collar.

"Yes," Sansa said, though she had little idea what that meant.

They attended Syrio Forel's fencing school twice a week for a private lesson, always under the guise of attending tea at Miss Tarth's. Sansa covertly brought a journal and pen, so that she could write while she watched Arya's lessons, but never did as much writing as she had expected. Arya was _good_ at this, she realized. She had always had grace and balance, and having this channel for it made her blossom. Sansa didn’t understand it, not really, but the changes she saw in her sister were undeniable. Arya had always seemed confident, but it wasn’t until now that Sansa realized how much of it must have been bluster. Little subtle signs were everywhere, showing that she felt more comfortable in her own skin — something easier in her gait, her voice just a touch less brash.

If only she'd had this opportunity all along — if only she would be afforded the chance in her future.

The Street of Steel wasn't far— Some days, instead of staying to watch, she slipped out to the milliner's, not because she wanted to buy anything, but because it was better to be seen than not. She knew what was being said about her family, no small thanks to Alys. She couldn't hide away — it would be like admitting guilt. She had nothing to be ashamed of. So she squared her shoulders and endured their stares, their whispers, even as they crowded into the shops to buy Myrish lace.

They did not bother her — she could not show that they bothered her. She smiled, she was polite — but nothing existed that was not pleasant, was not kind. It had worked for her, before, sometimes, when the world became too much to bear.

As she walked back down to the school, a horse slowed beside her. "Miss Stark?"

She looked up. He was high above her, but she could see his face well enough to recognize him. "Lord Dayne?"

"You look well—" he dismounted to speak with her, and she could see his hair ruffled under his hat, the flush in his cheeks. She noted the sword by his side; he must have been practicing, too. He hesitated.  "How is your sister, if I may ask that?"

"She is also well," Sansa said. "Finding ways to occupy herself. She hates to be idle." She remembered the dances they had shared, and how attentive he had been to Arya. She hesitated, too, studying his face. "You have heard that she's engaged?"

"Yes," he said, and the little half-smile he had worn disappeared.

"It was unexpected," Sansa tried to soften the blow while still keeping her words neutral.

"I had thought so," he said. He met her eyes and seemed to be deciding what to say. "Despite that, I wondered if she would want to continue the acquaintance — a friendship," he added. "She is a singular lady, and I—" he trailed off with a wry smile.

"She would not appreciate me speaking for her," Sansa said. "You will have to ask her yourself."

He shook his head, but he was smiling with his eyes now. "I knew that," he said. "I was not asking your permission, but I thought I should make my intentions known; I don't wish to cause any strife."

Perhaps he did understand something of Arya.

"Sansa!" came Arya's voice. "We've been waiting, have you just been standing here?"

Arya rounded the corner, saw who stood beyond the horse, and stopped. Lord Dayne's eyes widened when he saw her, and Sansa felt a stab of regret — he might understand _something_ of Arya, but there were some lines society could not abide being crossed.

"Please don't tell anyone," Arya said. "This has to stay a secret, or I can't do it anymore."

"Of course I won't," he said, and that tone in his voice? He might have promised her the world, if she had asked. "May I spar with you sometime?"

Arya blinked. "Yes," she said, at length.

"I look forward to it," he said, and with a tip of his hat, he departed.

He did join them a few days later — "Don't go easy on me," Arya growled at him a few strikes into their match, and he complied. He was very good, and disarmed her quickly each time, but after they'd rested he explained to her the physics behind each movement. She listened with rapt attention, and repeated the motions under his eye.

"She's very bright," he said to Sansa as they watched Arya's lesson with Mr. Forel. "She understands better than most of the boys I went to school with. And with how she's learning to make the most of her speed—" he smiled. "With practice, she will be a formidable force."

In their carriage home, Sansa shared his opinion. "Lord Dayne thinks you're doing very well," she teased — Arya groaned and turned to look out the window. "Perhaps I'll have to find you a real sword soon."

Arya froze in her seat. "Actually—" she bit her lip. "I already have one."

"What?"

"It's called Needle — Jon gave it to me before he left for the Wall."

"How old were you when he left for the Wall?" Sansa demanded — her voice came out in an indignant squawk. "Twelve? Thirteen?" What on earth had he been _thinking?_

"This is why I didn't tell anyone," Arya said. "I'm careful — I know you hate Jon, but he's not _stupid._ He taught me enough to not hurt myself. It's hidden most of the time, anyway."

"I don't hate Jon, I—" She stopped. She might not have hated him, but she had never loved him, and— "I was awful, wasn't I?" She never liked thinking of who she had once been — her belief that everything could and should be perfect. Her view of Jon, not as her brother, but as a reminder of Father's mistakes, one that continually pained Mother.

He had always seemed so strong and had never shown hurt Mother's actions, or at her silence. But now she knew what it was to hide pain in a crowd of people willfully blind, and just how deeply words could cut.

"Yes, you _were_ awful."

"I know," Sansa said. "Should I write to him? Or would that only make things worse?" She did not want to drag up old hurts, if he had already moved on.

"Write to him," Arya said. "Even just a note — you can send it with my next letter."

"I will," Sansa said, and closed her eyes. "Be careful with that sword — you're not to use it until Mr. Forel thinks you're ready."

"I promise," she said. "Cross my heart."

* * *

 

 _I'm sorry,_ she wrote. _I know I have caused you pain. I have no excuse except that I was young and insensitive to the pains of others_ — _which is no excuse. I hope you are well and I pray for your safety, to the old gods and the new._

* * *

 

Though Mr. Stone wrote back to Mr. Tyrell, Sansa did not see him again. Margaery still invited her over; she still saw her and Leonette and even Mr. Garlan and Mr. Loras on occasion, but Mr. Tyrell was ever absent.

Margaery had said that he liked her— Sansa had sent the flower, but she hadn't said anything back. She knew she shouldn't encourage any contact, but she hadn't meant to discourage him, exactly. Gratitude was all it was wise for her to give. It was for the best, she tried to tell herself, but she couldn't help wondering. The one time she'd floated the question past Margaery — _where was he?_ — her expression had faltered, just a little.

"He's been very busy," she'd said. "He keeps another house, closer to the Keep, for when he's very busy with the Council — he hasn't been home in some time."

His sudden business was likely an excuse to avoid her. It was silly to feel hurt by his absence. She knew it was silly. They had no relationship — he was the brother of her friend, and she had no claim to his time or attention. But he had seen her vulnerable, and it seemed that was the last he wanted to see her.

No, his discretion alone was more than most would have given her. She shouldn't have expected anything more — of course his kindness, his goodness would have led him to help her. But, despite the message Margaery passed on, what he had seen must have appalled him.

Joffrey had broken something inside of her, and despite all the time she'd spent gluing the pieces back together, stress in a different, unexpected place could cause the entire thing to shatter again. If a glimpse of that pain, that brokenness, had driven him away—

She did not need him. If he saw her and could not accept her— That was why she had hidden herself, wasn't it? She couldn't rightly remember anymore. If seeing only a sliver of what she truly was had frightened him away — she didn't need that, she didn't need _him_.

But that didn't change the fact that she had wanted him.

Or at least she wanted the man she had thought he was — she knew better than most how easy it was to hide parts of oneself behind paper and ink. The things he wrote her when he thought she was a man — that this might not match up to his actions — was something she should've expected.

Had that man ever existed outside of her heart?

Her words dried up; she could not bring herself to write him any longer.

* * *

 

 "It is a shame that you must return North, and so quickly," Arianne said on another visit. "You've only just had a taste of all the connections, all the opportunities available to you."

"Robb has decided we all must go," Sansa answered. "He has learned the nature of the Capitol, of covert plans and schemes, and does not wish to be pulled into any of it."

"What schemes?" Arianne laughed. "I'm certain I've not heard of any. Was there anything in particular he was worried about?"

 _Did he know what they had spoken of_ , Sansa knew she was asking. _Did he disapprove?_

"None that he mentioned," Sansa answered. "I think he meant more in a general sense."

"Well, if it will put his mind more at ease," she said, with a false flippancy, "I protect my friends. Make certain he knows that."

"Is she asking you to do something?" Arya asked, tense, after she had left.

"I think she just wants a friend here," Sansa said, grasping for a reason. "Most of her friends must be back in Dorne — the only people she actually seems close to are Miss Sand and her uncle." There were also cousins that she was supposed to be close to, but they were not in town.

"Oh," she said, deflating. "I didn't think of it that way. She's different too, isn't she? Dornish — people aren't always kind to the Dornish."

"I don't think she lets it get to her much, but yes."

"I'll be nicer," Arya said, then made a face. "But I can't promise I'll pay attention when all you're talking about is dresses."

As she laid in bed that night, she wondered. Should she join with Arianne? The thought kept her awake. She would be able to publish under her own name. She could speak and be heard; she could draw ever more attention to these injustices, the things that had kept her trapped — _If_ Arianne could truly protect her, _if_ she could ensure the Lannisters couldn't touch her.

With all of the names behind her — Starks and Martells, Miss Tarth and those who supported her, the lords and ladies of Dorne, the Mormonts and other Northmen she could convince to rally behind her name — couldn't it be possible?

If they — all of them — shouted and refused to be silenced; if they held rallies and reached out to more than just the Council floor; if they built something that could not be ignored—

Robb spoke of duty. Did she not have duty, too? Not only to the North, but to every woman trapped and abused and silenced; every woman whose voice fell upon hardened ears and hearts. If Sansa stood up and spoke, she could make all of Westeros hear. They might not _listen,_ they might laugh and ridicule and drag her through the mud — but wasn't that worth it, if she could effect change?

 _If_ she could stand up to the Lannisters.

She shivered and pulled her blankets closer. She could be brave. She _would._

She rose early the next morning, hoping to catch Robb before he left for the day. He was just about to walk through the door when she reached the landing.

"Robb— When you get in tonight, could we talk? Or after dinner? I have something to ask."

He nodded and waved as he departed, and she settled down to breakfast with a fluttery, nervous optimism floating from her stomach up through her chest.

When Hill brought in the morning post, she accepted the stack with more enthusiasm than she probably ever had. She sorted through it, setting aside the few dinner invitations they lately received, thank you notes from Princess Arianne and Miss Tarth, a letter from Mother expressing confused congratulations and promising to visit just as soon as she could get herself packed, and—

No. With shaking hands, Sansa picked up a thick envelope of smooth crimson cardstock addressed in golden ink, a lion pressed into its yellow wax seal. Feeling as if she was no longer part of her own body, she opened it and removed the card.

The Queen had summoned her to tea.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flower language is fascinating… especially how one flower can have many different meanings wink wink
> 
> Haven't forgotten about this story, but I probably won't be able to update before the new year -- working on a holiday themed story that I would like to be able to post during the holidays lol
> 
> Thank you so much for comments/kudos/subscribes/everything, you seriously make my day


	12. Willas 5

 

After the ball, Willas laid up into the early morning. The high spirits of the evening had worn off long before the alcohol had, and even as a headache was settling in, his mind raced away from him.

He couldn't help but ruminate on whatever had happened with Miss Stark. It was an entirely different level of fear than anything he had seen before — she had been frozen, unresponsive. All color had left her, her eyes blank and unseeing, her hands locked around the railing — she had not reacted to his voice, or her sister's.

It was perhaps the most unsettling thing he had ever witnessed.

And what was it Miss Arya had said? _You're safe._ Pieces were starting to fit together in his brain. She was terrified of the Lannisters because it was likely they'd killed her father. But what on earth had Ser Arys done to her? And what else was she afraid of?

What he still could not comprehend was why Ser Arys would be kneeling before her. It had almost looked like a marriage proposal, but— but—

Ser Arys may be of the Kingsguard, but his closeness to Princess Arianne betrayed how closely he held to those vows. He might offer for Miss Stark if he had compromised her reputation and felt guilty— And she would be so overwhelmingly afraid of him if he had—

 _Gods_. Had he assaulted her?

He didn't sleep the rest of the night. Willas had never had any particular opinion of Arys Oakheart — he'd never seemed like the brightest fellow, but he hadn't seemed _bad._ But that was naïve, wasn't it?

Damn Arys Oakheart to the hottest of the seven hells. He had never wished that on anyone before — he had not thought himself a vindictive person. Perhaps it had never been personal before. He had never looked a man in the eye and _known_ — you have hurt someone. Deeply, profoundly, intentionally.

Damn his own naiveté.

He felt like death by the time the household began to stir, but he picked himself up and went to go see Margaery. She was at her vanity, rubbing creams into her face, but she smirked when she caught sight of him in her mirror.

"Not planning on going out today, are you?" she teased.

He sat down next to her. "You should go visit Miss Stark today," he said. "I think she could use the company of a friend."

"Is this about her brother? I thought I might wait until tomorrow — I imagine today she'll be occupied by family affairs. Like getting to know her new sister." Margaery shook her head. "Gods above, what was he _thinking?_ "

"No, that's not what this is about — though I expect that is weighing on her mind, too. I saw her late last night, just before she and Miss Arya left, and she did not seem well." He tried to phrase this delicately. "I fear a man may have taken advantage of her."

Margaery set down her jar sharply. _"What?_ Who? _"_

"I hope I'm wrong — don't tell her that I suspect anything. I don't think she would appreciate me knowing."

"Alright," she said, "I'll go just as soon as is polite. What did you see?"

"Just talk to her, please? Tell her—" He paused just a moment, to force down the wave that was starting to well up. "Tell her I won't say a damn word— I won't tell a soul. And my opinion of her hasn't changed a bit."

It had, though, subtly— Something of her fear explained, the pieces of the puzzle starting to fit together. The strength it must have taken to persevere in a world that liked to deny and blame.

Margaery's mouth settled into the slightest frown. "I'll tell her," she said, and she shooed him from the room as she finished readying for the day.

After he'd gone through the motions of his morning routine, he tried to settle down with a book, but when, twenty minutes later, he discovered he'd been reading the same paragraph over and over, he gave up.

Margaery came to find him when she returned from her visit.

"You were wrong, thankfully," she said, joining him in the library."She said she was only frightened. He hadn't done anything like _that_ to her."

That was a relief, but Willas was sent back into speculation. What had happened, then?

"Why is she afraid of Arys Oakheart?" he wondered aloud, purposefully leaving off the _Ser_.

Margaery's mouth tightened, but it was only a fleeting expression before she spoke. "I shouldn't say. It wasn't anything like that, though. Part of it, I think," she paused, perhaps deciding whether or not to say anything at all. "It represented the end of childhood. That men sworn to protect can hurt, too. An innocent view of the world, destroyed."

He nodded and closed his eyes. It was vague, but he understood the feeling. "I always thought Oakheart was a decent sort. But that's not the sort of thing one would advertise to the world, is it?"

"In his defense, however small it may be— I don't believe it was something he intended or wanted," Margaery said. "But that doesn't erase the hurt he has caused."

"No," Willas said. "No, it doesn't."

"There are many men like him, and worse," she said, looking away.

"I know." He had known since before Miss Tarth, and he knew better now— perhaps because he hadn't experienced it personally, it was a difficult thing for him to remember. Suspicion wasn't his instinctive thought. "I suppose I hadn't been confronted with it so closely before."

"She appreciated what you said. And she sends her thanks," Margaery said, passing over his folded coat, a sprig of flowers settled on top. It took him a moment to place what they were.

Hydrangeas. He took a deep breath. Flowers meant things, sending messages of their own. Each one expressed a different sentiment.

This made her feelings clear.

He had so many questions — so many mysteries had just occurred to him to uncover — but those answers weren't his to find. They never had been. White hydrangeas — a rejection. A particularly cold rejection, at that.

He hadn't even made any overtures at her — he had been careful to _avoid_ making her uncomfortable. Careful, but apparently unsuccessful. She must have sensed his curiosity— her secrets were hers to keep, after all.

He let out the breath. She wanted to reinforce the distance between them. He was only the brother of her friend. She was not _his_ — she owed him nothing. Not her time or her attention. Even if there was a moment — just the one, and very brief — where he thought she looked at him with something other than indifference.

One look didn't indicate interest. It was foolish to think she might have been warming to him.

"Thank you," he said to Margaery. He attempted a smile, but his face wouldn't move right.

He would put Miss Stark from his mind. She was none of his business— she had never been anything of his at all.

It was time for him to move on. He had been dwelling on this, hadn't he? Dwelling on her. There were so many other things that energy could have gone to. The Council, gathering allies for Miss Tarth, whatever Oberyn was up to…

A change of scenery would be good for his mind, and for his heart. He kept a small house down on the Hook— he'd only ever used it when his work with the Council required particularly long hours, or when the main house was too lively for him to concentrate. Never as a home or a household.

Perhaps it was time to make more use of it. He couldn't stay here — too many distractions, one way or another.

Room to breathe— room to gather himself and throw off all that had been plaguing him.

* * *

 

It was a very different side of town. He'd never spent much time here in daylight, so now he was getting to know exactly how different it was. It wasn't a bad neighborhood by any means, but it wasn't a place where he would expect to encounter many acquaintances.

Jonsson, his valet, was more than up to the task of moving him here — Willas thought him eager to have more run over a smaller household. He hired on a few more staff to keep things running smoothly — a cook, a housemaid, a driver — and oversaw the rearranging of the house. Already some things were in strange places — his needs in a home were different from most, to minimize his time on the stairs, but he had never been here long enough to really settle in.

The ground floor library became a bedroom, some of the shelves relocated around the house — to the already cramped little sitting room, or upstairs. He wasn't entirely sure what else was upstairs— he hadn't been there in years. A music room, perhaps? He remembered a pianoforte, though he hadn't the faintest idea how to play.

The Hook itself was fast-paced and bustling — full of merchants and tradesmen's shops — and the surrounding streets a little quieter. Nowhere near glamorous, but respectable enough. Perhaps not for someone in the Tyrells' particular social circles. Not for someone on the verge of relation to royals.

Well, this wouldn't be permanent. Only as long as it took him to re-focus on what was attainable. Within his control.

Miss Tarth was his neighbor on the Hook, he discovered — across the street and a few houses down. Their budding friendship had lately been confined to a few private conversations, and a sense of comradery upon the Council — it was frustrating, but despite that they were colleagues, he shouldn't spend much time alone with her or risk doing damage to her reputation all over again. Garlan was probably the one who saw her most often these days — fencing, and sometimes accompanying Willas on visits.

Oberyn also joined, at times — though his moods were trending darker these days. His face settling into a glower when he was thinking and sharpness in his speech, even when the situation didn't quite warrant it.

Though Willas tried to avoid hosting guests at his house — it looked odd with everything moved around — he invited Oberyn over as they left Miss Tarth's one afternoon. It took some time to wheedle out what was bothering him, over biscuits and the kind of spiced tea Oberyn preferred.

He set his teacup down with crisp movements, not the relaxed sort of elegance Willas had become accustomed to seeing. "Lord Stark had indicated he intends to return North as soon as he can. We're close to unearthing something, and he is content to leave it."

Why would he do that? The Starks were so closely knit, and had great love for their father— they had worn mourning dress for upwards of two years, by Willas's count. Most people pushed those boundaries aside as quickly as they could justify. "There's the war," he thought aloud. But there had been no new news from the far North in some time, not that he was privy to, at least.

A lot of pressure was on him — all of the decisions Lord Stark had made, for better or for worse. The Northern lords — usually so unified, by outward appearances, at least — had started to splinter _. Had_ there been bad news from the warfront dividing them, or was Lord Stark simply losing his hold? His other alliances were fading— perhaps he'd salvaged something with Lord Frey, but that still stood on shaky ground.

"That war has been at a stalemate for decades. Another few months away couldn't make so much of a difference." Oberyn stood and paced the room, running his fingers along the spines packed into the bookshelves that had been relocated here from what had once been a library. "A few more months here could mean success for us."

What had they been working on? Searching for evidence of his suspicions about the Lannisters was all Willas knew of— Oberyn had always been reluctant to share details. Willas didn't feel the need to know every single thing that passed through his friend's mind, but that he knew almost nothing of this — a topic that consumed a significant portion of Oberyn's attention and inspired such an ill temper — had begun to nag at him.

"What is it you're doing?" he asked. "Can you not continue without him?"

Oberyn's jaw moved as he decided what to say. "I could trust that Lord Stark and I shared the same goals— few others share our motivation. And we are not known to be close acquaintances. All the better to work together — we could both make our inquiries without arousing suspicion."

Willas nodded, but worry had started to coil in his stomach, making him feel a little ill. "Are you getting into something dangerous?"

"I expect I will be," Oberyn said. He stopped at the window and gazed out over the street, just starting to darken with twilight. He turned to catch sight of Willas's face— "I don't keep this from you because I don't trust you. I know you hate to keep secrets, and these are heavy ones. This is not personal to you, like it is to me, like it is to Lord Stark. I keep this from you so that you won't have to bear these burdens."

"Who is bearing it with you, then? If it is so heavy as you say."

"Lord Stark knows enough to be of use to me. Arianne knows a little, and my elder daughters. Ellaria knows more. Doran— but he is not here, and I am. There are things I keep from him, too."

Willas levered himself to his feet and joined Oberyn at the window. "This may not be personal for me, but what is important to you is also important to me. I hope you know that."

"I know," Oberyn said. He placed his hand over Willas's, where he held his cane. "And that is all the more reason I should not abuse your kindness."

"I would hardly call it that." Willas had been offering— he didn't know exactly what, but he'd been offering for years now. Whatever help he could, with however much Oberyn would let him know. "It's what friends should do."

"Sometimes, I think you and I are past that." Oberyn rolled his shoulders and settled into something a little more relaxed. "The Stark household may be returning north," he said. "But perhaps Miss Stark could be convinced to remain, if she had some enticement."

Willas combed a hand through his hair, frustrated. Why could no one let this go?

"And if a friend might offer to open their home to her, perhaps she could. I would offer, but I think Lord Stark would disapprove — though I hear that she's been spending a lot of time with Miss Tarth, of late."

And if that was true, why hadn't Miss Tarth mentioned it?

"I think Miss Stark would be happier with her family. If I understand correctly, she didn't want to come to town in the first place, and I cannot imagine what might entice her to stay."

Oberyn turned from the window and gave Willas a searching look. "I did not think you so lacking in imagination."

"It is as I said— she's not interested."

"You assume—"

"I'm not assuming anything. She's made her feelings clear."

"You've spoken to her?"

It was as good as— "Yes."

Oberyn did not speak for a moment. "That is not what I expected," he said. He rested his hand on Willas's shoulder— the gesture brought a token amount of comfort.

"It was never anything more than a dream," Willas said.

* * *

 

Now that Oberyn had mentioned it, Willas couldn't help glancing down the street at Miss Tarth's house every so often, as a matter of habit. He did not think she had many visitors, and she didn't— but once, he thought he saw a flash of the particular auburn of Miss Stark's hair. It mustn't have been her, though, for Miss Tarth left driving her coach not a quarter of an hour later, and she would never be such an inattentive host.

But this was exactly why he'd gone away— to stop thinking of her. It was a completely irrational distraction, yet rationality could not control the human heart.

There were always more things for him to worry about. In his last letter to Mr. Stone, he'd tried to offer help, a way out, but the topic had been sidestepped in the response. That, too, had been a strange letter. Mr. Stone was generally perceptive, but had ignored all of the things Willas had tried to say between his words.

He set the letter aside, stumped. Jonsson was hovering, he noticed— he hated when Willas did his work at the dining room table, but his writing desk was upstairs— perhaps they should rearrange again, and find it a spot down here. It would probably save them both a lot of stress.

It was another few days of mulling it over before he was able to pen a response.

The rest of life barreled on without hesitation— the Council, struggling to mitigate the King's missteps. Joffrey was already on shaky ground with the people after last year's shortages and riots, yet was declaring more and more of his own edicts. For all that he was no longer a child, he had gained no wisdom, and now Lord Tywin even struggled to rein him in — not that Lord Tywin had ever been loved by the people of King's Landing. His recent clashes with the labor unions left the city more and more tense. When would it snap into violence again, and how many would be killed when it did?

What little unity there ever was in the Council chambers was breaking to pieces, petty rivalries cropping up— and throughout all of it, not a word about Lord Stark. He was returning North — something significant must have happened to call him away, yet his delegate said nothing of it. Roose Bolton — Willas knew little of him. A quiet man who still could command unnatural silence when he spoke. And he spoke nothing of the war.

Willas manufactured a reason to speak with him.

"Family business, I had heard," Lord Bolton said when Willas asked.

"He hasn't told you?"

"I am not much surprised," he answered in his eerily soft voice. "He's never had much interest in the South, same as his father. He might prefer if the North was its own kingdom again — there are some who would support that."

But this was treason — to speak of it openly—

"Only rumors," Lord Bolton said. "You understand— but it is good to know what people are saying. He's walking on dangerous ground, Lord Stark. It might be for the best if he were to return."

Willas made his excuses again. Something about the man unnerved him— his voice, his unnatural stillness, the lifelessness of his gaze.

He stood at his front window again once he was home, watching life pass by on the street outside. Carriages, people walking out to the main road, children playing. It was soothing, to see people with lighter cares and to remember that life went on — to keep him from falling into melancholy as he thought. Too many things were lurking — puzzle pieces to be put together.

But he had thought about it to exhaustion already, and would get no further dwelling upon it tonight. He stretched his hands, rolled his shoulders, and turned away from the window, perhaps to find a book to occupy himself for the evening— but as he turned, something caught his eye.

There was Miss Tarth, driving her small coach again. She usually rode, but when she took the coach, she always drove — he didn't think she kept a driver. And Willas hadn't figured out yet why she took the coach some days and not others. She always looked to be alone.

But she wasn't alone today, he realized, as she passed his house. Someone was leaning forward from the seat, and as they passed his window he caught sight of Miss Stark's face for only a moment — a gentle smile, her bright hair, a shade of blue that looked lovely on her, now that the family had started to set mourning aside.

Interesting. It would appear that Oberyn had it right — Miss Stark had formed some sort of friendship with Miss Tarth, despite her feigned ignorance and the lack of any apparent common interests between the two women.

But, Willas reminded himself, he didn't know a damn thing about her interests and it wasn't his business in the first place. She wanted him to leave her alone; the least he could do was to respect that. He shouldn't dwell.

He drew the curtains closed. No more looking at Miss Tarth's house, he told himself— the view out back wasn't nearly as interesting as the view of the street, but it might be more restful. Might allow him some peace, rather than feeding thoughts better left alone.

* * *

 

He'd only been back to the main house a few times in the past weeks — brief visits for a meal or an evening. Much as he wanted the space, it was good to go back. Every time he left, he was struck by the peace that came with living alone, but that slowly morphed into loneliness. The noise was comforting, sometimes— guessing who had passed his study by the sound of their steps, Margaery laughing with Leonette or her friends or their cousins, Renly's booming voice when he visited, Loras indignant at Garlan's teasing—

He didn't miss _all_ of it. But a bit more noise around his house wouldn't be unwelcome.

One thing he definitely didn't miss was Margaery's meddling — she brought up Miss Stark at every opportunity throughout dinner, and afterwards, while the others went to play cards in the drawing room—

"The Queen has invited her to tea tomorrow," Margaery said. "She's nervous. I've made excuses so that I can be there — I don't think Cersei would be completely awful in front of me."

The Queen wasn't a pleasant person to be around. There was the edge of something harsher lingering beneath the surface, and the moments when that façade wore thin were concerning. The more he saw of that family — the Queen, Lord Tywin, the things he'd heard of King Robert — the more he began to understand how King Joffrey turned out the way he had. Not necessarily the cruelty, but entitlement, grandeur, shortsightedness, fragile vanity, and a quick temper.

"She hates Sansa," Margaery whispered. "She's said as much— she took great offense over the engagement. I know she was trying to catch Sansa alone— I don't know for what, but I don't think she'll give up— I don't know what to do."

"I've heard the Starks intend to return to the North shortly," Willas said. "You might encourage her to hurry."

Margaery's eyes narrowed. "I've been patient for weeks and neither of you has said anything— What's happened between you two?"

"Nothing's happened." Nothing could have happened, because there hadn't been anything in the first place.

"Nothing's happened," Margaery repeated, putting emphasis on the words, "except she's been sad and refuses to say anything about it, and you've disappeared and refuse to say anything about it."

"I haven't disappeared— I'm only focusing on my work."

"What were you focusing on before that you aren't focusing on now?"

Willas opened his mouth and closed it again. He couldn't answer that.

"What happened?" she asked again, only softer this time.

"She's not interested," Willas said at last. "Please leave it be. Not everything needs to be fixed."

But Margaery's nose scrunched up as she thought. "I can't imagine why you think her indifferent." At his blank look, she continued, "She's asked after you, you know. She… lights up and listens a little closer whenever someone mentions you. She's a little too careful not to look at you, except when she thinks no one's watching. And at the ball, I thought both of you had finally started to see it, so _why—"_

"The flowers she sent," he said tightly. "She made her meaning clear. She doesn't want anything to do with me."

"What are you—" But then she stopped and just stared at him for a long moment, her mouth half open with an interrupted thought. "Willas, you dunce. It has different meanings — she was _grateful_. Of course she meant she was grateful."

 _Could_ that be it? Another meaning? "She didn't give any other context—" Willas protested.

"The context is that she's been trying for weeks not to let on that she likes you, she says you _rescued_ her at the ball, and she didn't have a chance to go… put together a bouquet or whatever it is you need to make this more clear." She let out a long breath. "What would she even be rejecting you for? I know you haven't done anything."

"She must know I have interest—"

"She doesn't. She's not inclined to think much of herself, either— you're well-matched in that way."

Could this be true? But even if it was— Willas shook his head. "There's no point. She'll be returning North soon, and from all indications Lord Stark doesn't intend to return."

"Have you lost your hands?" Margaery asked. "I know you've been writing to someone up North— and it's not as if she'll never return, especially if you give her a reason."

"She won't want to return— she has good reason to fear the Lannisters, and I don't expect that to change." She was so afraid — if Willas knew anything, it was that.

Margaery's mouth did something strange before she spoke — a slight twist — and her words were hushed, letting slip a secret. "The Lannisters might not be in power for as long as you think." But then her face cleared again, as if she hadn't said anything.

"Margaery, what are you doing?" Willas asked. His fingers had gone cold and dull, and his heart was now struggling to beat.

"Nothing," she said placidly. The way she could flip like that, turning to pleasantness, neutrality, made something squirm deep in his gut. He knew too many people who could do that, too many secrets webbed around him, unseen except for when the light hit just right.

"Is it dangerous?" he asked. How many times would he have to ask this of the people he loved?

"Is there anything in this city that is not dangerous?" she said, and the smile she wore struck him as sad.

"What can I do?"

"Continue to be just as you are," she said. "If it all goes to hell— It's better if you can say, honestly, that you didn't know."

* * *

 

Willas had told himself he wouldn't look at Miss Tarth's house anymore, but found himself at his front window again that morning, watching carriages clatter by on the streets. The movement was calming, but not quite enough of a distraction to keep his mind from dwelling where it shouldn't. Oberyn. Margaery. Miss Tarth and Miss Stark. Whatever was happening in the North. Mr. Stone. Too many unknowns circling around him.

He limped back to his writing desk, lately moved down into a corner of his bedroom. Today, he felt worn away by the world, a stone upon the riverbed dulled by the rushing water all around him. Anything he did to interfere, to protect his family, his friends, would be as ineffectual as standing deep in the Trident and trying to hold back the current by stretching out his arms.

What could he control?

He could apologize to Miss Stark. If he wrote to her, would she respond favorably? But he shouldn't spend too much thought on that—

What if he did? He'd never written her before. They weren't, in any actuality, closely acquainted. No. She might humor his letters — she was polite and gracious — but there wasn't anything further. Smiles and a few snatches of conversation did not make a foundation.

Margaery thought, but Margaery didn't _know._

A note, perhaps? He could thank her for… the flower. Something. Something that wasn't from weeks past. He thudded his head down on the desk. An apology, no preamble, for his behavior? He picked up a pen and set it back down again. There was no way to say this that wouldn't be awkward.

His fingers sorted through his other papers as he thought, neatening and rearranging as he went. Mr. Stone's last found its way into his hands— dated two weeks past. It had been a strange letter— stilted and short, and Willas's reply still went unanswered. It was unlike Mr. Stone. It was rare that an entire week passed before receiving a reply from him— yet here were almost two, while his articles had continued uninterrupted.

Willas turned the letter over in his hands, and opened the drawer where the rest of them were kept. Who was Mr. Stone? Man? Woman? Safe, or in danger? Offended by Willas's inquiry, or frightened by it?

He traced the words with the tip of his finger, feeling the swing of the lines, the rhythm of the script. Who had written these? He started to pull them from the drawer — sealed by a thumbprint in grey wax, all of them, and addressed in Mr. Stone's hand. The swirl of the S in his name, and the loops of the double-L's. But the postmarks—

Different post-houses. Many different post-houses. What was this?

His writing desk wouldn't be large enough for this— Jonsson helped him take the stack of letters out to the dining room table, where Willas sorted them out. Some were from the same areas— when Jonsson went back for a map of the city, Willas began to plot them out more accurately.

Post-houses dotted all over town. Not just one or two, as he would expect if a servant, or Mr. Stone himself, was posting them. No— this must be deliberate. Trying to hide something — trying to hide the activity from someone else in the house? Dropping letters at post-houses while running errands around town?

Yes, that seemed likely— Some of them made sense, for that. The Central Square, the Street of Steel, the nicer side of Rhaenys's Hill. Others from neighborhoods she — for Willas was now certain it was she — must have visited. Up near the Old Gate, a couple from over by the bayside— near Oberyn's house, in fact. One of the most recent from just down the street.

Some of the others made less sense. Down by the Waterfront, near the river. The Street of Silk. What on earth would she be doing there, he wondered— but even as he thought it, he was rushing back to his writing desk to put all of his questions to paper—

But as soon as he sat down, he no longer knew what to write. How to phrase this? He had inquired earlier, in a roundabout way, if she was safe. She had not answered, nor had she acknowledged the asking. If there was a chance their correspondence could be intercepted, he could not be any more direct, lest he put her in more danger.

He went back to his front window again. There, across the street, something was moving in Miss Tarth's front windows. She was home. He took a moment to bundle up the map and the letters and slip on his coat. She answered the door at his knock, looking slightly panicked when she let him in — "Please don't say anything," she muttered, "Lord Stark doesn't know."

"Don't say anything about what?" he asked. When they entered her sitting room, he wasn't sure exactly what would be objectionable— Already there were Miss Arya and Lord Dayne, and that was all.

But then, as Willas thought about it— The only thing he had heard of Miss Arya in weeks was of her engagement to Elmar Frey, and Leonette's sad face when the topic was brought up. And Lord Dayne _had_ been quite attentive to Miss Arya at the ball—

Willas looked at Miss Tarth sharply. This was— he wasn't sure how to feel about it. He knew Miss Arya hadn't wanted the engagement — that was indisputable, and an injustice of its own — but sneaking around with another man didn't sit right with him, either.

 _Lord Stark doesn't know_.

More secrets, then. How had he become steward of so many?

Miss Arya watched him with hard, suspicious eyes, daring him to say anything. He didn't.

"I wouldn't have let him in if I thought he would disapprove," Miss Tarth said, trying to communicate something to Willas with her eyes — she didn't think he would disapprove? Miss Arya relaxed marginally.

"What exactly am I supposed to disapprove of, or not?" Willas asked.

"Nothing," Miss Arya said, but her eyes darted to the side. When Willas looked a moment later, trying to be subtle about it, there was nothing there but Miss Tarth's display of fencing swords.

"Miss Stark usually joins us," Lord Dayne said. Miss Stark knew about this? A little of Willas's uneasiness settled. She was cautious — he didn't think she would let this go on if it was something dangerous, improper. "Today she is with the Queen, you said?"

"Yes," Miss Arya said. She looked like she wanted to say something else, but her mouth tightened into a frown to keep the words in.

"Margaery is with her," Willas said. "She won't be facing the Queen alone."

But Miss Arya didn't look reassured. "She's always nasty and people only pretend not to see it. Another set of eyes won't put her off."

"It mightn't stop her, but sometimes a sense of solidarity makes it all more bearable," Miss Tarth said. She passed a cup of tea across to Willas.

"How is she?" Willas asked. "Your sister."

"As well as can be expected," Miss Arya frowned. "If you want to know, why don't you see for yourself?"

"Would she welcome that?"

Miss Arya shrugged. "Who knows what goes on in her head? She never says what she wants, which is just stupid, if you ask me."

Willas took a sip of tea. No new answers, really— He'd send something along. A note. That reminded him— the bundle of letters was sitting on a side table now, and Miss Tarth was eyeing it.

"Was there something you wanted to discuss?" she asked.

Yes, but— "It's not urgent," he said.

Lord Dayne glanced at the bundle, but didn't say anything— Miss Arya didn't hold back. "It looks urgent," she said. "You were in a hurry."

Willas hesitated. "It's about Mr. Stone," he said.

"Have you found something?" Miss Tarth asked, at the same time as Lord Dayne said—

"Mr. Stone?"

"I think I might have found something," Willas said, his hands straying to the bundle.

"Are you trying to figure out who he is?" Lord Dayne asked. "I've been wondering, myself."

"Who is he?" Miss Arya said.

"He writes— I've thought it must be a false name, or else why would he not be more present? He's very impassioned," Lord Dayne was saying as Willas laid the map out on the table.

"Different post-houses," Willas said, setting the letters out. "All over the city. She's posting them herself, trying to hide it from someone."

Miss Tarth went pale — _"She?"_ Lord Dayne asked — Miss Arya only looked confused. She picked up the envelope nearest to her.

"This one was near our house," she said, setting it down on the map over that neighborhood, up by the Old Gate. She picked up the next one and stared at it for a long moment. Then she was a flurry of movement, hurrying around the table to put each envelope in its place.

"We fear the book might be based on personal experience," Miss Tarth said.

"What exactly does she write about?" Miss Arya asked. "What book?"

 _"A Lady's Justice,"_ Willas said. "And a political column. Divorce law, labor regulations, anything else that's salient in the moment." To Miss Tarth, he said— "If I could just get something out of Baelish, anything—"

"Baelish is involved?" Miss Arya interjected.

"Her publisher."

"I don't like him," she said. "He's shifty, and I don't like the way he looks at Sansa." The clock struck half-past the hour, and she looked up. "I should be home. Sansa will be back soon, and I know she won't be feeling well after the Queen."

Lord Dayne offered to see her home, leaving Willas and Miss Tarth sitting over the map.

"She's been near," Miss Tarth said, touching the envelope that had been sent from the post-house down at the corner.

"It's strange, isn't it?" Willas said. "To know we might have seen her without knowing it. And to not have any idea how we might keep her safe."

"Write to her again," Miss Tarth said. "She of all people should understand it's no failing of hers that this has happened — no shame in needing the help of a friend."

"If she doesn't want to accept help, what can we do? She ignored the last time I asked."

Miss Tarth frowned, thinking. "What other details can we get from her? We can guess where she spends her time—" she tapped the map.

"I know the bare minimum about her life in the North. Do you know anyone—"

"—in Wintertown? No. I might be able to go myself."

"Let me see what I can find first," Willas decided.

In his home, at his writing desk again, he sat up as the sun set, tapping pen against paper. Half a dozen sheets were started and discarded, and his words brought him in circles. He was running out of delicate ways to phrase this, deciding what other details to dig for— things that would seem innocuous, but might tell him all he needed to know.

Perhaps Baelish might be their greatest source of information, for all that he avoided speaking about Mr. Stone at all. Willas set the pen down again and stretched his hands, and there was a great banging at the front door. He paused as Jonsson went to open it—

"Willas. I need to speak to Willas— Immediately—"

Margaery. Before he could get up, her footsteps were already dashing down the hall— he hadn't seen her _run_ since she was a child—

"Willas!" She stepped in and snapped the door shut.

"Margaery— How was—" he started to ask, but she interrupted.

"This is a very large favor to ask, and it will seem very sudden, but it is important. Very important."

"Yes?"

"Go to the Stark house and ask for Sansa's hand in marriage."

He must have misheard — there was no way that sentence made sense. "Pardon?"

"Please? Now?"

"What the hell is going on?"

"There's not time—" She took a deep breath. "The Queen is scheming, trying to bring Sansa back under Lannister control. The Starks are powerless to stop it— short of sending her back to Winterfell, there's not anything they can do, and even then there's not enough _time."_

That was true— Lord Stark had used up a lot of goodwill with his allies over the past few weeks, and hadn't gained any favor lately — too distracted by whatever was calling him North.

"If her family can't protect her, how do you think I'll be able to?"

"You don't realize the power you have, do you? You never have — it's one of the most endearing and frustrating things about you. You're so inclined to think poorly of yourself that—" Margaery let out a sharp breath and leaned against his writing desk. "You _would_ protect her. They wouldn't dare cross you. They rely on us — on our family, on the Reach — and you're the one who's been managing all of it for years, while Father—" She stopped and shook her head. "Everyone respects you — even the people who don't _like_ you. No one would dare go after your wife—"

Willas pressed his hands to his temples as a headache began to settle in. How was this real?

"She'll say yes."

"She'll say yes because she'll feel she has no choice. That's only a different sort of entrapment—"

"It's not anywhere near the same thing." Margaery sighed. "You like her, and she likes you. In a perfect world you would be able to build on that and let it grow— but right now there's not _time_. She needs to be married immediately."

He shut his eyes. This really wasn't how he'd envisioned the evening going. "Hypothetically— _if_ I ask, and if she agrees. How is this going to work?"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this has taken a long time — I was struggling with Willas, and distracted by other things that were coming to me more easily. 
> 
> Notes—  
> \- I made a couple small edits to previous chapters — a couple of small mistakes with geography that honestly weren't a big deal, but I wanted it all to be consistent.  
> \- I know -son names aren't a thing in Westeros, but common-born people seriously needed surnames, so I've used them there.  
> \- I'm on tumblr now: [peggycarterisacat](https://peggycarterisacat.tumblr.com/) for general fandom stuff, [peggycarterisacat-fic](https://peggycarterisacat-fic.tumblr.com/) for fic updates. If I disappear for a while again, I'll try to put a note on there with what's going on so you know I'm not dead.


	13. Sansa 8

Sansa had always been good at walking. It was a silly thing to be  _ good _ at, but she'd rarely needed correction, even back when she was a foolish girl practicing to be presented before the court. It had seemed so important then, learning to move in bulky court dresses and memorizing the quirks and courtesies expected. Miss Mordane never had anything for her but praise — walking should be graceful, smooth, effortless.

It did come in useful now, she supposed. The movements were so ingrained as to be instinctual — they required no thought, yet there was still plenty to focus on, if she so wished. She stepped neatly backwards as she was dismissed — one should never turn one's back on the Queen, or any of the royal family, for that matter — and paused by the door to give another deep curtsy. The ritual to it was comforting. Certainly pleasanter than her alternatives at the moment.

She remembered these corridors — three years was not long enough to erase the rhythm of the steps from her memory. If she turned her head, would she see Oakheart or Blount or Moore escorting her? She stared forward, unblinking. Ser Loras was the one posted outside the Queen's rooms this afternoon, and if anyone was following her, it would be him. Ser Mandon Moore was dead, she reminded herself. Replaced lately by Ser Loras.

Still, she daren't look.

_ Three hundred forty-six, _ she counted as she stepped into the courtyard. Perfect — just as she remembered.

"Sansa," Margaery said. " _ Sansa. _ Have you heard anything I've said?"

"I don't believe so," Sansa answered. The words came out by rote, as if cranked from a music box. One of those slowly spinning wheels, with the nubs that plucked at stiff strands of metal. Spinning, yes. It was spinning.

" _ Sansa. _ " Margaery was holding her hands. How long had she been holding them? She was shaking. Which of them was shaking? Something was shaking. "I won't let this happen. You won't go back to them. I promise. They won't get you."

"That sounds lovely," Sansa said.

Then she was inside her carriage, and it was moving. There should be noise from the street, from the clatter of wheels on cobblestone — spinning, spinning — but there was nothing. Her vision started to fade to black in spots, and tingling pins and needles started in the tips of her fingers, through the palms of her hands, up her wrists and arms, all the way to her face.

She touched her cheek. She couldn't feel it.

Then her eyes— Air wasn't entering her lungs. Her head was heavy and light and spinning all at once — she needed to lie down. She needed to lie down  _ now _ .

She struggled to get herself down on the seat, but the damned  _ hoops _ the Queen insisted ladies wear to court made her movements awkward— her arms wobbled as she tried to balance herself, and then her skull filled with lead—

She opened her eyes. She was lying down on the seat, shivering, and each heavy pound of her heart echoed through the emptiness inside her. When had it gotten so cold?

But no— now there was heat in her face. Clammy and cold and  _ hot  _ and spinning, spinning— she might be one of the carriage wheels, dizzy and battered all over the cobblestone.

If she was a carriage wheel, she wouldn't have to marry a Lannister.

She was still laughing — she couldn't be a _ carriage wheel,  _ she wasn't made of wood — when the driver came around to help her down.

He had to help her into the house, too, because her ankles didn't want to behave properly, and when Robb asked her what was wrong— she _ couldn't.  _ She giggled into his shoulder when he carried her up the stairs. She couldn't help it. Everything was wrong, and a— a  _ carriage wheel _ .

She knew she wasn't being very helpful when Arya helped her out of her shoes, or when Jeyne unpinned the feathered headpiece from her hair, or when Robb held a glass of water to her lips. She at least managed to step out of the stupid hoops when Alys untied them, and the yards and yards of richly embroidered satin fell slack about her legs. They bundled her into bed like that — it would crease the fabric, but Sansa had no energy to protest, much less stand again to undress. They pulled the curtains when they left, to leave her quiet and dark.

Arya stayed, sitting up next to her in bed. She tilted her head a fraction of an inch to rest against Arya's side.

"What happened?" Arya asked.

Sansa shook her head.

She felt Arya exhale. "Sansa, you're safe," she said. "You're safe here."

Sansa shook her head again. There was no safety for her anymore.

Arya stroked her hair until she calmed, what felt like an eternity later. "What happened?" she asked again.

Sansa tried to sit up, but her arms didn't want to cooperate. She laid back down, clumsy as a newborn kitten and exhausted all the way through. Everything felt pale and empty and worn away, a threadbare shift starting to unravel at its seams.

"I'm to marry Tyrion Lannister," she said. "The Queen took great pleasure in telling me." Sansa had once looked up to her — refined, composed, beautiful. The things she'd once found lacking in the North, in her family, in herself.

Now she could see the spiteful cast to every smile, the ever-constant burn of anger behind her eyes.

She had been watching. Sansa should have expected it, but time without their interference let her grow bolder than was warranted. She had asked so, so many questions about the Martells —  _ what were they planning? What had they done to Myrcella? _

When Sansa insisted she didn't know, the Queen hadn't believed.

"But Princess Arianne is your dear friend, is she not?" Cersei had asked. "The little schemer — all of them, and your brother and her uncle. And now you've been brought into the fold — you thought you could disguise it as ladies having tea?"

But Sansa knew nothing of schemes except for the vague idea that she might bring her voice forward without the mask of Mr. Stone, and an unknown list of lords that might lend public support. In that, Robb was not yet involved.

_ Robb, what are you doing? _

"We're friends, yes," Sansa said.  _ Blank. Vapid. _ She left her lips slightly parted, rounded her eyes, forced herself into practiced, perfect posture. "She's so fashionable. Always in the finest silks, and the eye she has for color— I wish I could be so."

The Queen always thought her to be stupid, an empty-headed ornament to be placed by Joffrey's side, and today, Sansa must prove her right. She was a lady who had learned nothing but courtesies, who had not enough wit to notice the Queen's barbs, who accepted the poison served to her with a smile.

"Why would they be unhappy with Your Grace?" she asked, and "He has siblings?" and "I didn't realize they were acquainted," and "I've no notion of what Robb does — it's so dull." The Queen's smile grew more and more grotesque with every traded word.

And when her now-impending marriage had been revealed— "I hardly know him," was the weakest protest that came to mind. She said it again when Margaery arrived from whatever distraction Cersei had left in her path. As they left, the sight of Cersei's too-satisfied smile seared itself into her brain.

Arya thought on it now, her eyes flickering back and forth as she sat there, oddly still. "No," she said. "You're not. Get packed, quickly— we're getting you out of here."

"What?" Sansa stumbled as Arya tugged her out of bed.

"Edric and Syrio and me — we've been planning this," Arya said, pulling down a small suitcase from its shelf. "We thought during the Royal Wedding — all of the people in the city, the confusion. Make it look like I'd been taken. Syrio has friends in Braavos, and Edric knows someone in hiding further south — he wouldn't say  _ who, _ only it's someone supposed to have died during the war, and they'd take me." She rifled through Sansa's wardrobe. "This is early, but we can make it work. Do you have  _ anything _ that's not fancy?"

Sansa looked down at herself. Anything would be better than her court dress — she'd embroidered this one herself, a design reminiscent of lace stitched out with twinkling silvered thread and beaded with the freshwater pearls Uncle Edmure sent for her last birthday. It glimmered rather than sparkled when the light hit it — less ostentatious than what the average lady wore to court, but only just.

She opened her mouth to answer, but— no. This was Arya's plan to escape marrying the Frey boy, wasn't it?

"Were you going to say something, or were you just going to leave?" Sansa asked instead. She should have expected Arya would be planning something, but this felt rushed, desperate, inelegant. Too many loose ends left hanging.

"No," Arya said. "I  _ have _ been listening to you — secrets don't stay secret. If you knew we'd planned it, they could find out, too."

Sansa nodded; she knew it was true. "We can't leave," she said. That was another truth.

"Why not?" Arya demanded.

Sansa struggled to put it into words. "We aren't just people. Our lives, our allies, and our enemies aren't solely our own — our people are the ones who bear the burden of our mistakes, and we have a responsibility to them. We're running, and we don't have time to disguise it as anything else. People  _ will _ die if we leave." She sat back against her bed again as her head began to spin.

"We shouldn't have that kind of power. No one should care who we marry, or if we marry at all. Silly things in our lives shouldn't reach so far."

"So much power," Sansa said bitterly, "and at the same time, none at all."

"Fine—" Arya snapped, slamming the wardrobe shut. "If that's what you want to believe. We have no power. There's  _ nothing _ we can do— They're looking to be offended, and if it's not this, it'll be something else in a couple of months, on and on until you're a shade less than perfect and they have all the excuse they need to ride north and kill everyone. There's no way to win if we stay here and do as has always been done."

"What do you mean?"

_ "This _ isn't the only power we have. There was something Father used to do — he never talked about it, but I know you remember. He would bring the families from Wintertown to join us for dinner. He would listen to them — the farmers and the merchants and the tradesmen. I know you remember, because you're doing the same thing — giving a voice to people who don't have the means to speak for themselves."

Her heart slowed with dread, each beat so strong that it might rock her entire body. She fisted her hands into the bedsheets to hold upright. "What?"

"If you martyr yourself for this, people will still be hurt. Maybe not directly or quickly, but it'll happen all the same. So will you throw yourself to the Lannisters' violence again, until they tire of you and move on? Or will you come to Essos with me and continue writing, Mr. Stone?"

No. Sansa stared, wide-eyed. No one could know. "I don't know what you're talking about." Her heart had stopped — she was cold again, her face gone clammy. She touched her cheek, but it felt far away.

"Yes you do," Arya said, frowning up at her. "So this will make enemies — they're already enemies, and pretending they're not won't make them any less dangerous."

"It's not that simple," Sansa protested. "It's nowhere near that simple."

"Why not? What do you  _ want? _ Don't you dare lie."

Sansa felt her mouth waver. The  _ truth— _ "I don't want to marry him," she whispered, feeling like a traitor.

"If we're going to leave, it has to be now."

It was entirely selfish, but the blind panic that filled her chest started to dissipate just thinking of it. A ship, escape to somewhere they could not reach her. A new life. Freedom to continue to write, where it wouldn't matter if anyone found her out.

She squeezed her eyes shut and nodded once.

_ "Yes,"  _ Arya crowed. "We'll leave tonight, we just need to get to Edric's. He needs to write some letters, and then we can go—"

The front door slammed, cutting her off. Arya, eyes widening, rushed over to the window, and Sansa followed a moment behind. A big carriage stood out front, and voices echoed up from the foyer below. The Lannisters, already?

_ "Damn—  _ To my room—" Arya dragged her into her room across the hall. "We'll go out the window. The stonework's rougher out back, there are footholds. We can do this."

Arya knelt on the wooden floor and rolled back the rug, and Sansa looked out the window. They had barely anything packed into the little suitcase, Sansa was still in the heavy, embellished gown she'd worn to the Queen's tea, and neither of them had proper shoes on. "Have you been sneaking out at night?" Sansa asked, looking down. It would be a long fall.

_ "That's _ what you're worrying about?" Arya hissed—

The door opened and swung shut behind them— Sansa whirled around to look, but it was only Jeyne.

"What's happening?" she asked in a whisper, but didn't wait for an answer— "Mr. Tyrell has just arrived, and he asked to speak to Robb. Alone. I don't know that they've had any business together— certainly not enough to merit a visit at this time of night. I know that the two of you know the family better—"

Mr. Tyrell? Why would he be here? But if it was him, not the Lannisters, they might have a few moments more to prepare to leave, if she could only convince Jeyne away—

"Margaery's been evasive about him," she said slowly. "I haven't seen him since the ball."

Arya, still kneeling on the floor with a board halfway pried up, glanced over. Her eyes flickered in the candlelight. "I saw him today, but he didn't give any indication of anything."

Jeyne looked them over uncertainly, but didn't ask what they were doing.

"Jeyne, could you please ask Alys to bring them some refreshment?" Sansa said. "She knows to tell me if she overhears anything."

"Oh— yes, of course," Jeyne said, backing out of the room.

"Do you think she'll say anything?" Arya asked as soon as the door snapped shut again. Sansa couldn't even begin to guess, but had no chance to get a word in. "He might have figured out who you are," Arya said in a rush. She yanked the loose floorboard all the way up. "He was asking questions about Mr. Stone— I didn't think he was this close, but he might have put it together."

If they were going to leave anyway, did it matter?

Sansa took a shaking breath. "Put some shoes on — I'll be just a moment, and then we'll leave."

Arya looked up from her hiding spot. She had pulled out a long, thin sword, more delicate even than the swords men currently favored. With practice and precision, it would be deadly fast. "I know what to do," she whispered, but Sansa barely heard it before she slipped back into her own room.

She rushed to lace herself into a pair of sturdy half-boots. There was no time to change into a plainer dress, but if she covered herself, perhaps it would go unnoticed — a shawl and pelisse would have to do. She was about to pick those out when her door opened again. Was it Arya, ready to leave, or Alys, with news?

Neither. Robb stood there.

"What on earth is happening?" he asked. "Mr. Tyrell's just asked to marry you, and what's happened with the Lannisters?"

The shawl slipped out of her hands. "What?"

"I know Miss Tyrell is your friend, but I didn't think you knew him well at all."

"I don't," she said faintly. "I'm just as surprised as you are. What did you tell him?"

"That I needed to talk to you. If you want me to send him away—"

Should she send him away and escape through Arya's window? This had to be Margaery's interference, but why would he agree to it? He had avoided her for weeks — scandalized by the compromising position she found herself in, or disgusted by her paralyzing fear. Her brokenness.

Was it pity? Was it ambition, the desire to be connected with the Starks of Winterfell?

That didn't sound like the Mr. Tyrell she knew, but she knew him mainly through his letters. His own words, thoughtfully considered and written. His actions aligned with what he said — his votes and his advocacy — but those were also planned and strategized. Who was he, in his heart of hearts? Who was he, in instants when angered or frustrated?

She'd been led astray by pretty faces and pretty words before.

This must be some scheme or trap, hidden to be sprung on her — more unexpected, even, than the Queen's proposal. But there was no chance of learning his aim without speaking to him. "Let me speak to him first," she said. Margaery wouldn't send her into danger, she told herself. Not intentionally. And if things went sideways, there was still time to escape tonight.

"What's happened with the Lannisters?" Robb asked again, as he fetched the shawl from the floor and helped her wrap it around her shoulders.

If she told Robb, would he force her to marry Tyrion Lannister anyway, to avoid angering another influential family?

"Nothing," she said, pulling the crocheted lace tightly around herself. She shivered. The last time she'd seen Tyrion Lannister, he'd stopped the Kingsguard beating her. But whenever she remembered his face she felt cold air where they'd ripped her dress away, the tickle of blood running down her back. "The Queen was her usual self, that's all."

Robb frowned, his brows tipping down. "Mr. Tyrell felt there was some urgency, and you came home looking half dead. What happened?"

Chill flooded through her, making her heart flutter in panic. No— she could not freeze. She countered with another question. "What are you really doing with Oberyn Martell?" His jaw tightened, and she spoke again before he could give excuses. "I deserve to know because the Queen thinks I'm involved, and that's why she intends to marry me to her brother — leverage to stop you from doing whatever it is you're doing."

Robb stepped back. "The Kingslayer?"

"No, thank the Gods." Sansa shuddered. Ser Jaime looked too alike Joffrey, and there was something callous about his smiles. "Mr. Tyrion."

He nodded, but was silent a moment. "The Lannisters are dangerous — to you and to us all. The Tyrells—" He stopped. The Tyrells would be protection — more than Robb could give her at the moment. He knew it, too, but didn't say it aloud. "Lord Tyrell is ambitious, but cautious. They will be good allies if we are in return — what do you know of the rest of them?"

Sansa knew little of Mace Tyrell. But Lady Alerie had taught her children that kindness was not a weakness, but a strength. Mr. Garlan and Leonette were so accepting of Arya and Miss Tarth both. Ser Loras had his unshakeable sense of honor. Margaery was her closest friend.

And Mr. Tyrell was something close to a dream, and just as intangible. He wrote lovely letters and there had been something fleeting the last time they spoke, but then it was gone — smoke blown away on the wind.

She shut her eyes. She would speak to him.

"They're good people," she told Robb.

He nodded. "Then come," he said, and helped her down the stairs.

Her mind raced as they made their way to Robb's study. Every step she took forward was a step away from escape — but how true would that escape be? She took a long, slow breath and forced herself to think pragmatically. This could be a miracle of the sort she hadn't thought to hope for — an escape from the Lannisters that mightn't doom the North in the same swoop.

But what did Mr. Tyrell want?

He was seated in Robb's study, but rose as she entered.

"Miss Stark—" he said. "Are you well?"

Robb helped her to sit near the fire. The heat livened her some, but she must look dreadful to merit the question. She put a hand to her cheek again — her skin still cold to the touch. And her hair and dress still a mess.

"I've had a trying afternoon," she said, forcing herself into a fool's calmness.

"Yes, I imagine you have," he said, sitting back down. "Has Robb told you…?" He looked between them uncertainly.

"Yes," Robb said — Sansa nodded.

"You'll have questions," Mr. Tyrell said.

"May we have a moment to speak alone?" Her heart picked up, but she needed to know— she glanced back at Robb, but he looked hesitant. She pressed her lips together so as not to let out an exasperated huff.

They might be engaged within the hour — they might be married tonight. And if they weren't, Sansa would be on a ship to Braavos, where impropriety wouldn't matter anymore.

"Five minutes," Robb said. He left the door ajar as he stepped out.

It would have to be good enough. "Why are you doing this?" she asked Mr. Tyrell bluntly.

He looked taken aback. "Pardon?"

"Did Margaery ask you to do this?"

"Yes," he said. His face wavered, and he hesitated before he spoke. "It will be safer for you — the Crown relies on our family much more than they'd like to admit. They may feel bold enough to act against you now, but if you are tied to us, there's little they can do."

"Thank you," she said, steeling herself to remain blank, unaffected. Her courtesies would hide her fear, her uncertainty. "I understand the protections it will give me, and it is kind of you to offer. What I would like to understand is why you've agreed to it — what you expect from me."

"I expect nothing," he was quick to reassure her. "Should you wish to live separately, Highgarden will always be available to you."

She nodded, slowly. She thought eventual friendship, at least, was within reach, but if he didn't even want her near—

"But I think that we could coexist."

That was slightly better, but _ coexisting _ wasn't how a marriage should be described — it wasn't how Mother and Father had been. It wasn't how Jeyne and Robb were now.

"Why?" she asked again, not really expecting an answer.

He turned to look at the fire for a long moment. "You shouldn't have to live in fear," he said, just as quietly. "You deserve better than that."

Charity, then. Pity.

"Don't feel obligated, just because Margaery's asked it of you — it is not your burden to bear. I can still—"

She could still what? Leave the city tonight? It would be obvious that she had run, and it was an enormous risk to put on the people of the North — a risk she was struggling to justify with Mr. Tyrell offering an alternative.

But her heart was not yet convinced.

He was not Joffrey, she reminded herself. Margaery was not Cersei. Neither of them wanted to hurt her; she wasn't being lured to a trap. Their intentions were good, they would be kind, she would be cared for and protected. But there would not be love. She shut her eyes. She was not a girl anymore, and clinging to silly daydreams would do her no good.

"If this is unwanted, I won't persist," he said. When she opened her eyes again, he was watching her carefully. She steeled herself to give away nothing.

It was stupid, but a small, pathetically hopeful voice reminded her that Mother and Father hadn't loved each other from the start. They hadn't even known each other. It had grown. It was something they built together over the course of years — so strong that Sansa suspected Mother might never set her mourning aside. A sobering thought. Could Sansa love like that, fiercely, wholeheartedly, and without inhibition?

Not today. Maybe in a month, a year, a decade, a lifetime. Today her heart ached from bruises Joffrey's fingers left behind — today her heart carried the weight of a hundred small betrayals and disappointments.

"I think we could have peace together," she said slowly.

"Then, Miss Stark—" He hesitated, and laid his hand next to hers on the arm of her chair. "Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?"

"Yes," she said faintly. She tilted her hand so that her fingers brushed his, and he laced them together gently. Her heartbeat thudded in her ears — she measured her breaths to calm herself. "What will we tell everyone?" she asked.

"Have the Lannisters made an announcement?" he asked. "Of your engagement to Mr. Tyrion."

She shook her head. "I expect that will happen tomorrow, to preserve some propriety."

"That may help smooth things," Mr. Tyrell said as Robb entered the room again. "If we marry before any announcement is made, it will help them save face. Hopefully it will save us some hostility on that front."

But the Queen would know she had conspired to escape, and Cersei would not let that go easily.

"There will still be rumors," Robb pointed out. "Speculation on why this is so sudden."

Robb would know about that, wouldn't he? It was an unkind thought, and she pushed it away.

"We are both inclined to privacy," Mr. Tyrell said, meeting her eyes carefully. "With some precautions, this may still look planned — Margaery is seeing to that. Gathering our family and, I think, bribing a Septon."

A small ceremony, privately planned and held, and with both families in attendance. It was not unheard of.

"And if there are rumors, we'll weather them together," Mr. Tyrell said.

She nodded. Her heart pounded against her ribs, so loud that she feared he must hear it.

"So we are decided?" Robb asked.

She nodded again. She didn't trust herself to speak just now.

The stairs went by in a blur as she and Robb retreated back upstairs again to inform the others. How much her life would change — she would no longer live here, no longer see see Arya and Robb and Jeyne every day as a matter of course. She must become accustomed to a new house and household — she would have more control and responsibility than she did here, assisting Jeyne. She would see Mr. Tyrell daily, and her social circles would change — did Mr. Tyrell do much entertaining of the Reach lords?

She must stop writing, she realized. Mr. Tyrell was suspicious — Mr. Tyrell was asking questions. No one could know, lest they question other things, and perhaps learn the truth the King was trying to hide. Arya knowing was already too much.

Mr. Stone would have to die.

The thought was not a comforting one. Her writing gave her a sense of purpose — that if she could create change and prevent other women suffering in silence, there was a point to her own pains. Yet she could see no other way around it.

Robb went to find Jeyne, and Sansa slipped back into Arya's room. She was pacing, sketching out sword strokes with one of Sansa's parasols. On a second look, Sansa noticed the little slim sword tucked into the folds of fabric, held alongside the handle.

"Are you ready?" Arya asked, rushing to gather up the suitcase. A corner of fabric poked out where she had hastily packed.

"No," Sansa said. "Mr. Tyrell came to make an offer of marriage." She took a deep, steadying breath. "I've accepted."

Arya abruptly stopped. "This isn't your only choice," she said, almost pleading. "We can still leave."

"It's safer this way," Sansa said. "I won't go to the Lannisters, the Tyrells will be able to stave off retaliation." And— "I don't want to leave," she whispered. Perhaps she would do as Margaery did and focus her efforts on charity — improving the lives of some where she could, while maintaining the image of a proper society wife.

"You shouldn't have to marry someone you don't want to — not for anything."

"I don't  _ not _ want to marry him," Sansa said. That made little sense. "He'll treat me well, and I think we will come to understand one another, given time."

But Arya was still not convinced. "It's forever, or as good as," she protested.

"I like him," Sansa admitted. "It's stupid of me, but I like him." How could she make Arya understand? Arya had a dull view of marriage, but this was not the same entrapment that marrying into the Freys would be. "If it were different, if marrying another would save you from the Freys, would you marry Lord Dayne instead?" she asked. The two of them had become close friends, and Sansa thought there was at least a hint of something more.

Arya stilled, and her face slowly twisted into a grimace. "I told him no," she said.

"You said no to what?"

"He offered — he said we could elope and go to Dorne, if I wanted, so I wouldn't have to marry that Frey." She started pacing again. "I told him no, so he's helping me get away instead."

"He offered?" Sansa sputtered, struggling to put the idea together in her head. Quiet, polite Lord Dayne didn't seem like the sort to make such a suggestion. "He wasn't upset that you refused him?"

"No," Arya said, as if it was obvious. "He knows it's not him, it's the entire—" she huffed, frustrated, and crossed her arms. "I don't want a husband," she said. "I don't want to be married. It's not  _ equal,  _ no matter that he'd be good about it. No matter that Mr. Tyrell would be good to you."

Sansa reached out to touch her arm, trying to be reassuring. She knew it wouldn't work; Arya was not easily calmed. "It's not always so bleak as that. Mother and Father were happy—"

_ "Most _ of the time," Arya said, in the tone that meant she was losing patience with the topic.

"Nothing's perfect," Sansa said quietly. "This is the best decision I can make right now, and I think, in the end, we'll have peace."

"And you won't resent him for it?"

"Why would I?"

Arya lowered her head. "I would. Mr. Tyrell will be nicer than the Lannisters, and Edric would be nicer than the Freys, but it's all just a different way of being trapped. If I married Edric, I would hate him for it in the end. I couldn't live with myself like that."

"Well," said Sansa, trying to keep her voice light, "We've always had different views on marriage, ever since we were girls."

Arya laughed, but it almost sound like a sob. She scrubbed at her face with her sleeves.

Sansa ducked her head to catch Arya's eyes. "If there's truly no way out of your engagement, I won't stop you leaving. But there may yet be a way around it — give me time to think it through again."

"There's not," Arya said. "I've thought for a month, and Robb's argued with them, and I've argued with him. There's nothing else they want."

"Or, it's like you said," Sansa said ponderously. "We can't win if we do as has always been done. Forget asking or appeasing — it won't get us anywhere. What can we do that'll make  _ them _ not want  _ you?" _

Arya attempted a grin, though her cheeks were still tear-streaked. It simultaneously filled Sansa's heart with relief and a prickling sort of worry. "I can think of several things," she said.

"Things they'd be hard-pressed to justify taking offense to," Sansa amended.

Arya frowned, thinking, but they got nowhere before the door opened again.

"It's not a proper maiden's cloak, but it's as close as we could find," Jeyne said. She carried her sewing basket, and Alys bustled into the room behind her, clutching a bundle of white. "If this is to be happening so quickly..."

"I had it set aside, from all the old things in storage," Alys said, unfolding it. "Thought I might make something new from it." It was a lady's cloak of a very dated fashion, likely her grandmother's — too fine for travel, yet too plain for ceremony. But the cloth itself was good, soft and thick and trimmed with white fur.

"It will look lovely with your dress — if we pin up the hem, but leave the back long, it'll look enough like a train." Jeyne knelt down by her side and folded up the satin. It was too long without the hoops to fill it, deflated like a tent with its skeleton removed. "You'll have to move carefully so it won't fall apart."

It would be no trouble — Sansa had always been good at walking, after all. She had to stifle a giggle at that thought. It was ridiculous, that it had given her comfort. Was there anything less useful in the world?

Arya handed out pins while Alys and Jeyne scurried around on the floor, fixing up the hem, and when they were done, Jeyne swept the white cloak over her shoulders.

"Beautiful," she said, smoothing her hand over the fabric absently. Sansa knew they must move, must leave so that she could be married and settled and safe, but Jeyne's hand on her arm gave her pause. "I know it's not perfect," Jeyne said. Her voice was barely above a whisper — Alys was starting to pack her things to be moved, and Arya was ahead, fidgeting as she held the door. Both too far to hear. "I know what they'll say about you — I know what they say about me. I'll tell anyone who'll listen that you have our blessing, that you've been courting privately, that you're madly in love, that you didn't want a fuss. Perhaps it will work better than it has…"

Her face had gone pale and ashen, but her eyes were as alive as Sansa had ever seen — fixated on her, determined. Sansa could only nod. She didn't yet know what should be done, how badly her actions would be seen by society. But Arya and Robb and Jeyne were beside her, helped her down the stairs and into the waiting carriage. She almost felt alive. Arya was warm, tucked under the cloak at her side as they bumped through the darkened streets, and Sansa tried very hard to think of anything but the spinning wheels, lest the afternoon's strange mirth burst forth again.

Instead, she watched through the window as the lights streaked past. Her last dream of marriage had been a nightmare, one where Joffrey stood waiting for her in the Sept. His voice making a mockery of the vows before the Seven, his sneer promising every pain just as soon as they were away from watching eyes. She awoke in tears, expecting to find herself trapped back in the Red Keep, and had been at a loss to explain it when Alys came to help her dress.

Joffrey would not be the one waiting for her tonight, she told herself, clinging tight to Arya's hand. She must be brave.

Robb helped her down from the carriage before a small Sept in an unassuming neighborhood. The light on the other side of the doors was golden and warm, and when they entered the Tyrells were already assembled near the front. Sansa forced her hands to relax and let the cloak slip through her fingers, falling open from where she had clutched it around herself against the chill. She shivered. It was no warmer inside, and the breeze moving over her arms turned her skin to gooseflesh, the prickling feeling rushing over her like a spider unseen.

She took a deep breath to steady herself. This was not the end of a life, but a beginning. It was frightening because it was unknown, not because anything bad would happen.

She had to believe that.

Robb brought her forward, and there was Mr. Tyrell — Willas? Could she think of him as Willas now? Would he want her to call him that? As her hand was placed in his, she was conscious that she must feel like ice. He squeezed it, and rubbed his thumb over the back, and restored some warmth to her skin. Some sensation to focus on as they stood before the Septon, the altar, the Gods.

Their hands, together, as the Septon spoke. Their hands, together, as they repeated the words — words she had dreamed of speaking since she was a girl. Words that turned to a nightmare and back again, words that now she spoke as if by rote, a repeat of all the Septon said.

_ Not Joffrey, _ she reminded herself as his hand left hers, and the cloaks were exchanged. She knew it was not Joffrey, yet it was still a relief when he came back into her vision, his face tired and lined with worry.

"You are mine and I am yours," they said as one, and it was done, save for—

His hand came to cradle her cheek. Joffrey had been her first kiss, the only one until now. Even back then, when Joffrey treated her well, some part of her — buried deep in the animal instinct of her brain — had known something was wrong. But he was her golden prince, straight from a song, so she had explained away her misgivings as nervousness and jitters.

She could not fully close her eyes as he leaned in, watching him through the veil of her lashes. He was not Joffrey. Eyes of amber, not emerald; his hair honeyed brown waves, not golden curls. His smiles did not conceal lies.

He kissed her quickly, gently, and it turned the flutter of her heart from panic to something that brought warmth up through her chest, her throat, her cheeks. But he did not linger, and after he drew away she pressed her fingers to her lips, wondering what just a bit more would feel like. There was no layer of revulsion as there had been with Joffrey, and what had once been only a vague curiosity sparked and caught.

But the hour was late, and there was little time for thought or celebration. Margaery wrapped her in an embrace — "We are sisters now," she whispered — and Jeyne promised to arrange a formal dinner just as soon as could be managed. Every face wore a smile made tight by worry, and Arya looked so aggrieved that she couldn't say even a word as they left, only squeezing Sansa's hand as they passed.

Most of the carriage ride was spent in silence — it was not far. She recognized the street when they came to it, very near Miss Tarth's. She was here often enough, and he must keep a similar schedule to Miss Tarth — it was a wonder she'd never seen him here. The house itself was strangely situated and a bit spare. Bookshelves in unexpected places, and a ground floor room unsuited to the purpose made over into his bedroom.

The stairs. Winterfell underwent similar changes after Bran's fall, moving the things he regularly used to the ground floor, arranging the furniture so that Hodor had a clear path to move him. Would he have the new, lighter chair by now? She hoped he would—

Mr. Tyrell broke through her thoughts, passing her a robe. "In the morning, I'll have one of the upstairs bedrooms made ready for you, if that's what you'd prefer," he offered. "But for tonight — I don't expect anything of you."

She nodded. There was a screen she could change behind — she had none of her things, no nightgown, no Alys to help her hide the scars. That would all come tomorrow, but in the meantime he mustn't see. Nothing good would come of it.

"I have it," she said, when he asked if she needed any help. The hoops were the most unwieldy part, and they were already gone. Now it was just petticoats, and wrestling an arm behind her back to undo the lacing, and squirming out of all the layers and her stays. She wrapped the robe over her shift and as he did the same, she managed her hair into a messy braid.

After the lights were extinguished, she feared she might lie awake all night. Her heart and head still lagged behind the passage of time, whirring through the day's events. But the fears and anxieties were a layer removed, as if a gossamer sheet had fallen between her and reality. For now, it was enough to let herself slip away on the tide of exhaustion, Mr. Tyrell — Willas — by her side.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always apologize for the wait, don't I? I was sick again for a while, and this chapter in particular was emotionally exhausting for me. 
> 
> historical notes:  
> \- though regency fashions were less structured, a lot of empire waists, etc, court fashions were very different -- voluminous, hoops, tons of fabric and embroidery to show how fancy you are, etc. 
> 
> actually I think that's it this time. 
> 
> Thank you so much for your patience, all your wonderful comments, kudos, etc. It's been almost a year since I started posting. I didn't expect this to turn into what it did, and it's still changing as I grow. You guys keep me thinking and writing. Thank you.


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